


The Name of the Moon

by Friolero



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alpha Dean Winchester, Alpha/Omega, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Dean Winchester, Captivity, Castiel Whump, Dark, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Epic Angst, F/M, Gen, Hurt Castiel, Implied/Referenced Torture, John Winchester is a decent guy, Kidnapping, M/M, Mpreg, Mystery, Omega Castiel, Parent Castiel, Parenthood, Protective Castiel, Protective Parent Dean, Reunited and It Feels So Good, Seizures, Shifter Castiel, Shifter Dean, Shifters, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Warning for possible triggers, Werewolf Castiel, Werewolf Dean Winchester, epic feels
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-06
Updated: 2016-07-22
Packaged: 2018-03-21 13:00:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 28
Words: 105,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3693207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Friolero/pseuds/Friolero
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean´s mate disappears one cold day in late spring. They search the Territory, but when they are unable to find any clues, Dean is forced to struggle with the thought that Cas is just gone. It happens sometimes, the wolf takes over and Shifter wanders into the woods, never to be heard from again.</p><p>Cas isn´t the only werewolf to go missing. There are Hunters and Collectors, people willing to do whatever it takes to secure themselves a rare animal to their collection and packs all over the States have suffered loss. But, Dean´s lost more than his mate, and finding Cas might only be half the battle.</p><p>Please read additional warnings in the chapter headings. Spoilers for possible triggers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Chapter one.**

 

Rain slated across the window, obscuring his view. He grips the wheel tightly, forced his eyes to remain open, even if all he wants is to curl up someplace warm and sleep.

 Dean navigates the car into the garage, gives it an affectionate pat for a job well done.  He curls his hand around his neck, feels the tension creep up along his back and settle on his shoulders. He told Cas he’d be home by eight and it’s almost ten. He’s late again and he braces himself for another row.

He tugs the collar of his jacket up against the wind and hurries around the house to the kitchen door. It’s locked and he fiddles with the keys, cursing the cold and the rain. As soon as the door, the sharp smell of disinfectant hits him.

Shit.

He had promised Cas he’d do the cleaning this time. Another thing he’ll pick a fight about.

 

“Hey, Cas, you home?”

 

Dean takes a deep breath, tries to sort out the familiar scent of his mate from the sterile soap, but his human nose isn’t sensitive enough.

 

“Hello? “

 

He moves through the dark house. Turns the light on in the living room. Catches his own reflection in the dark television. Oil stained overalls, a streak of dirt across his jaw. Castiel dislikes the poignant scent of oil and grease and Dean realizes he’s dragging the scent all through the recently cleaned house. Shit. He’s going to end up sleeping in the basket in the kitchen again.

 

There’s nothing out of place in the living room, newspapers piled on the table, books sorted alphabetically in the shelves. Dean stops, tilts his head, lets his ears pick through the usual sounds of the house, the hum of the air conditioner, the constant buzz from the fridge, the clock in their bedroom.

 

Nothing.

 

In their bedroom, their mingled scent is still strong. Even if they fight during the day, even if they go asleep on opposite edges of the bed, they’ll always find each other during the night. But, the bed is made with military perfection and the basket is empty.

 

Cas usually leaves a note if he’s going out.

 

Dean sighs. For the last couple of weeks, things between them have been strained. Dean spending too much time at work. Cas feeling cloistered and guilty by his inability to find a new job. He’s been a rollercoaster of moods, short and snappish, hissy fits and sulks so acidic it could have peeled off the wallpaper.  Dean feels like he was living in a minefield.

 

Dean moves over to the bedroom window and pries it open. The wind blows drops of rain through the gap and onto the floor, but Cas prefers to sleep in a cold room, even if Dean thinks it’s a pain in the ass to wake up and be unable to feel his own face. He closes the door, trapping the chilly air. Maybe it will be enough to stave off another argument.

 

He goes to the back door. On a small peg hangs his green collar, while Cas’s blue one is missing. Dean frowns, even as the unease in his chest settles some. Cas is adamant about his nightly trek through the woods, no matter the weather. Christ, the guy had even gone out in a goddamned blizzard once and come home with a mangy hare.

 

Dean throws his dirty clothes into the laundry hamper and steps into the shower, allowing the heat and pounding water beat away the aches of a long day bent over the hood of cars. He likes his job and doesn’t mind the extra hours to make up the loss of an income, but the work takes it toll on their relationship.

 

Afterwards, he flops down on the sofa, stretches until he feels every kink in his back pop into place. He lets his eyes drop shut, tries to stave off a headache as the weariness of the day eases out of his bones. Just twenty minutes and then he’ll start dinner. To make up for not cleaning the kitchen, like he had promised.

 

He wakes with a start.

 

Light filters through the curtains, stretching cold, pale fingers across the room. He wipes his hand across his face, blinks the room into view. It’s been years since he lost control of his internal clock and the effect is jarring and disorientating. There is an uneasy feeling in his stomach, raw and sharp like the lingering remains of a nightmare he cannot quite shake.

 

Dean pads across the room to the kitchen. The smell of disinfectant is less poignant, but it still makes him wrinkle his nose in disgust. Cas always boasts about of his superior sense of smell, how could his wolf stand this? 

 

He makes a cup of instant coffee, pours some milk and two spoons of sugar into it. A peace offering and a shield for a no-doubt grumpy mate.

 

“Hey, Cas?”

 

He nudges the door to their bedroom open with his foot.

Fear flares, bright and dangerous and Dean feels the cup explode in his grip, warm water and shards spilling over his hand. He’s oblivious to the pain. The bed is still made, the room is icy and the last trail of his mate’s scent is drifting through the open window.

 

Castiel didn’t come home last night.

 

He moves to the back of the house, wrenching off his clothes with each step. Cas’s collar is still missing and Dean snaps his own around his neck. He closes his eyes and tries not to think about the violent and aggressive transformation ever nerve, cell and bone in his body is forced through as he Shifts.

 

The world is blurrier as a wolf, everything a hue of grey and black, but some things are sharpers: the sound of fridge, the burring of the damned air condition and every heavy toll of the clock. He sees the trails of his own scent, dark green and vibrant. He slips through the flap in the door, gives himself a heart beat to sort through the smells until he finds Cas’s blue one, so faint it is almost undetectable. A few traces of it linger outside the door, wafting in the silent morning breeze. The rain. Dean curses; the rain and the wind have almost washed the streets clean.

But there is something, thin and faint, ribbons of blue twisting along the path to the woods.

 

He follows the faint trail until it disappears among the trees and the world becomes a kaleidoscope of dark greens and browns. Pines, dirt, wet soil, rocks, moss, rain, animals, all drowning out the blue trail that his mate’s scent would have left.

 

Dean turns back home, tries to summon his last strains of restraint. Wolves are all instinct and power, and it wants to leap into the woods and run until it finds his mate. Dean needs his human mind to think logically about this situation.  There has to be an explanation for this.

 

Maybe Cas has decided to visit his sister and then decided to wait out the rain.

 

Without telling Dean.

 

A faint sliver of hope blossoms in his chest.

 

 

He goes back to the house, presses his nose to the ground - there, the faint traces of Cas, almost seeped through the moldy stench of the wet wood on the porch. Strange. Did Castiel go out, return and then leave again?

 

He nudges his way through the flap in the door, finds himself in the kitchen again. The white cloud of the bleach is all encompassing and burns ever nerve in his nose.

 

Dean is about to Shift and find the phone.

He’ll call Sam and he’ll tell him that Cas is in the barn with Anna. It wouldn’t be the first time the two siblings caught up in some game.

 

But then he sees something. It drifts along floor by the cabinet, small and faint. Almost twelve hours old. A dark fleck. He breaths in the scent and fear coils along his spine, settles in the pit of his stomach. He recognizes the smell well enough after hours on the range with his father who always insisted that they needed to know how to protect themselves against hunters and collectors.

 

It’s gunpowder.  Somebody fired a gun in his kitchen.

 

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeated. Please feel free to look me up on tumblr as http://friolerofiction.tumblr.com/ if you have questions about the lore, the story, want to chat or have suggestions for the fics.
> 
> Please see the notes at the end for disclaimer.

**Chapter two.**

 

“Sam.”

 

“Dean,” Sam groans,  “why are you calling me at the asscrack of dawn?”

 

Dean tightens his grip on the receiver, “is Cas at the farm? Is he with Anna?”

 

He hears a shuffling sound and then catches the trailing end of Sam’s whispered conversation with his wife, Jesse.

 

“No,” Sam says carefully, “I haven’t seen Castiel since you guys were over for dinner last Sunday. Is something wrong?”

 

Dean goes cold, “he’s gone,” says, his voice small and tight.

 

“Hang on,” Sam says, “what do you mean gone? Did you guys have another argument? You know he’ll be back once he’s cooled down.”

 

“We didn’t have an argument,” Dean growls, the unsaid _this time_ lingering at the end of his sentence. He takes a deep breath, calms the snarling wolf in his chest.

 

“I came home and he was gone, but his collar was missing too, so I assumed he was out on one of his runs. I nod off on the couch and when I wake up, he’s not home, the bed hasn’t been slept it, nor his basket-” he adds before Sam can ask, “and there’s….there’s smell of gunpowder in the kitchen.”

 

Sam is quiet again.

 

“Gun powders, Dean are you sure you’re not overacting and-”

 

“You gotta trust the nose, Sam,” Dean says.

 

“Alright, just….I’m coming over, just…just hang tight.”

 

Dean has never known how to hang tight and he’s not about to learn now. He prowls through the house, searching for any other trace of the gunpowder or an unfamiliar scent. Anything that shouldn’t be there.

 

He finds neither. The only thing missing is Cas. He prowls the kitchen, noses the spot along the sink where he found the traces of gunpowder. It’s almost completely gone now and he can’t help but think that maybe Sam is right. He presses his nose to the tiles, noses along the cupboards. In the trashcan, he scents something so strong it’s making his eyes water.

 

He Shifts back, feeling his muscles ache in protests of multiple transformation in such a short amount of time, and the wolf’s instincts lingers longer than usual before his human mind regains control.

Dean opens the trashcan. Under old food and oily rags he finds a bottle of bleach. He wonders if Cas bought this, he’s usually very conscientious about limiting their exposure to chemicals that can damage a sensitive nose.

 

Sam arrives twenty minutes later; his shirt tucked into a pair of sweatpants and wearing the ridiculous plastic shoes his wife, Jessica, bought for him last year.

 

Dean’s torn between being grateful to see him and ripping him a new one for taking his sweet time getting here.

 

Sam halts his tirade, “just tell me everything.”

 

Dean sighs. Closes his eyes.

 

He recounts his day: from the long hours at the Garage, the pesky brunette with the Ford Mondeo, that made work two hours over time. He explains about the sharp smell in the kitchen, that the house was empty and Castiel’s collar gone. How he fell asleep on the couch, planning just to snooze a few minutes. He describes suddenly waking up to the pale sunlight, realizing that Cas was nowhere in the house and ,when he Shifted and went outside, all he saw was Cas’s scent weaving into the trees and dissipating in the wind.

 

Sam’s not a Shifter. It happens now and again in a werewolf family, and most of them leave the Territory as soon as they are legally able. But he’s grown up with Shifter parents and an older brother who is an Alpha.  Sam’s always strove to understand everything he could of a world he would always live outside of.

 

“You’re sure it’s gunpowder?”

 

“Yes,” Dean taps his nose and Sam raises his hands defensively.

 

“Right, but you have a gun, right? Where is it?”

 

This is why Dean needs Sam. His little brother is always able to keep a calm head and follow a logical line of reasoning when the only thing Dean wants to do is….something, anything, and damn the consequences.

 

“And put some damned clothes on!”  Sam calls after him as Dean moves towards the study.

 

Dean grumbles, but shrugs on a pair of jeans and a shirt.

 

The gun had been a contested item in their household.  For weeks Cas had recited statistic of gun related accidents and deaths contributed to guns already in the household. Dean said they needed a goddamned defense against collectors and hunters. The compromise had been to keep gun in a security-approved safe, safely hidden and to Dean’s charging, hidden too well to be of any use.

 

“The gun is still here,” Dean says. He takes it out of the case, sniffs it, “it’s not been fired recently.”   

 

“When did you clean it?”

 

Sam’s standing in the doorway, his hands tucked under his arms.

 

“Last week, as always.” Dean says. Their dad had rigorously instructed them gun safety and maintenance.

 

“….and did you clean it in the garage or the kitchen, like last time?”

  

“The kitchen,” Dean admits. He remembers the row Cas and he had about it, how it wasn’t safe or hygienic or some sort of nonsense.

 

“So, could that be where the scent is from?”

 

Dean has to admit that Sam could very well be right. The scent had been very faint, barely noticeable.

 

“ I know you are worried, Dean, but do you really think a hunter or collector could sneak up on Cas? In your own house?”

 

“No,” Dean agrees. Cas has got the best nose in the Territory; he’d smell an intruder with his nose in a bucket.

 

Dean locks the case and pushes the gun back into the safe. He takes a deep breath, gathering his scattering thoughts. It should be better, he tells himself to, consider the possibility that Cas left rather than the one where he got shot, dragged off by a hunter and skinned and-

 

Dean shuts his eyes so hard he sees stars.

 

No. He’ll not even think about it.

 

“What if he left me?”

 

Dean feels a fleeting pressure on his shoulder, “don’t  be crazy, Dean.  Cas is nuts about you. You’ve been mated since you were eighteen and you’re still freakishly cute and gross around each other. Do I need to bring out the pictures from last summer?”

 

Dean rolls his eyes and shrugs Sam’s hand off his shoulder.

 

“No, and we’re not cute.”

 

“Sure,” Dean hears the smile in Sam’s voice.

 

He stuffs his hands into his pockets and walks over to the window, peers out into the greying dawn. A few weeks ago, Cas had coaxed Dean out for an early morning run. It was one of those mornings when the air was crisp and cold, when you could smell winter on each inhale.

 

It was the day before Cas’s heat came and they’d spent five days tangled together in their bed.

 

A few weeks later, they had their first serious argument. Cas had stormed out of the house and Dean had gone to bed, too tired to make sense of his tangled thoughts and emotions. He’d woke up later to Cas stroking his nose, smelling of pine and dirt and Dean had circled his arm around his waist and pulled him close, tight and possessive. Now, he can’t even remember what the argument was about. Minutes pass before Dean realizes how consume he’s been with his own thoughts.

 

“He’s been so goddamned moody lately,” Dean scrubs his hand across his face, “throwing tantrums and being all… brooding. I know I’m not the easiest person to live with….what if he just got sick of it all and just….”

 

Sam’s eyes are suddenly calculating.

 

“What?”

 

“Nothing,” Sam shakes his head, take a deep breath. “You said he went for his run, have you searched the woods?”

 

Dean hesitates. What thoughts Sam had just dismissed?

 

“Just the outskirts,” Dean feels the twisting thing in his heart return. “Shit, what if he’s out there, injured. He could have fallen and hit his head, broken a leg, he could-” the list of possibility seems endless, each prospect grimmer than the other.

 

“Dean,” Sam’s voice is calm, “he’s a werewolf. You guys are tough, it takes more than a broken leg to- why don’t I phone Jesse and have her call the clinics and the farms around the woods- if he was injured, maybe he got help from across the Territory.”

 

Dean knows Sam is grasping for straws. Castiel would have called Dean to come and get him. The people who lived on the Territory border can be friendly enough, but some of them have lived too close humans. They pick up bad habits and bad attitudes. There’s a word for a wolf living with humans.

 

But Dean needs Sam’s straws, he need somebody to tell him what to do, because he feels the wolf lurking in the back of his mind, dark and restless. He takes a deep breath and then another. Forces the animal back. He needs his human mind to dominate the animal’s instincts. Needs to think about this logically.

 

“Good, good…” Dean drags a hand through his hair, “I’ll call the guys, and get a search party together.”

 

Sam smiles reassuringly, “we’ll find him, Dean. Don’t worry.”

 

Benny, Victor, Jo, Anna and Charlie arrive within thirty minutes.  Dean stands for a moment on his porch, watching them as they warm their hands on cups of coffee. Dean has known these guys all his life. They grew up along the same strip, played together as pups and learned hunting and tracking together. He bested both Victor and Anna for position as pack leader, since then they had served as Beta and hadn’t challenged his rule of the pack,

 

He closes his eyes, feels his wolf’s mind curling along the edges of his subconsciousness.

 

“Dean,” Benny says quietly, “you need to calm the hell down, man. Even my human nose can smell how anxious you are. You keep this up, you’ll have all the alphas in the Territory thinking you’ve gone off the end and that it’s time to knock you down a rank.” He steals a glance at Anna and Victor, “we don’t want a stranger taking over as pack leader.”

 

The others are watching him, unease evident in their hunched shoulders. Christ. Dean takes a deep breath, and then another.

 

“Right,” Dean steals his voice and grabs hold of the porch railing to hide his trembling hands. As one, the pack turns to him, alert and attentive.

 

“Cas usually runs through the woods, he doesn’t have a regular route, but his favorite haunts are: down by the lake, along the river, you guys know the place, the spot with the old water wheel and Moon Caves. We all take one location, so we don’t mix up the trail.”

 

“Did he have his collar on?” Charlie asks, “only….” she trails off, but Dean catches the worry laced in her voice.

 

He almost doesn’t want to ask.

 

“Yes?”

 

Charlie draws her lips to a thin line; “Ash said he saw some hunters on the borders a couple of days ago. He told Sheriff, but you know what he’s like, he probably gave them directions.”

 

There’s a murmur of terse agreement. Dean’s grip on the porch tightens until he feels the wood creak under his hands. Shit. Hunters encroaching on their Territory have always been a major source of discontent between humans and Shifters. Even if it’s illegal, werewolf pelts are considered a valuable commodity and the argument that the victim wasn’t wearing a collar always seems to hold up in the Sheriff’s court.

 

“You may change in the house.”

 

A few minutes later, the four wolves emerge. Benny and Victor trail swirls of grey and black, similar to the color of their coats. Anna’s a vivid red, more a signature of the hair dye she uses than any natural scent. Charlie’s scent is a mottled red, an earthy hue that mirrors the colors of her canine eyes.

 

Dean feels their Links with him, built strong and vibrant through years of trust and friendship. The Links tethers their human minds and allows them to remember what it is like to walk on two legs and have opposable thumbs. It allows them to shift form at will, as long as there is no full moon to force the change. Without the Links, the wolf will seize control.

 

(Victor, you take the path down to the lake. Charlie search the trails by the old water wheel. Anna, you take the Moon Caves and Victor,) Dean pauses, studies Victor’s wolf. His head held high, mouth in a relaxed line and his amber eyes never moving from Dean’s. It’s a masked challenge, but Dean doesn’t want to deal with Victor’s sudden attitude. He’ll put him in his place later.

 

(Victor, you follow the river.)

 

They bound off into the woods, their scents curling around the trees and seeping into the wet group.

 

Dean watches them go with a sinking feeling in his heart.

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please don't hesitate to leave me your feedback, thoughts, ideas for the story and do so on. You can also catch me on https://www.tumblr.com/blog/friolerofiction if you want to talk or throw me some suggestions.

**Warning >** This is when it starts to earn its angst tag.

 

**Chapter three.**

 

Dean feels the hair on his skin prickle to attention, the wolf beneath his skin pacing and clawing. He watches the car pull to a halt in their driveway and when Deputy Sheriff Mills steps out, his lips curls back in an involuntarily snarl.

 

Sam’s elbow digs into his side.

 

“Calm down, Dean, or she won’t help you.”

 

Dean has been calm long enough. He was calm when the morning waxed into the afternoon and the members of his pack slunk back. He was calm when they told him how they had been unable to find any signs of Castiel. There were no traces of him anywhere, not a speck of his scent and not a single paw print.

 

Now they stand huddled on his porch, shoulders hunched and arms crossed. Their gaze locked on their shoes. Echoing his anxiousness.

 

Mills walks up to the porch and brings with her the scents of printer toners, coffee, cigarettes and a fully human smell.

 

“Mr. Winchester, “ Mills tips her hat back and fixes Dean with her dark eyes. Sam gives her a polite nod while the pack shuffles their feet.

 

“Mills,” Dean growls, earning another jab from Sam’s sharp elbow.

 

“You’re husband is missing, that right?”

 

“He’s my mate,” Dean corrects. The distinction seems important somehow though he knows the law does not care for such sentiments.

 

“Right. Sorry. Your mate. So,” Mills fishes up a black, leather-bound notebook, “why don’t you tell me what happened. From the start.”

 

Dean glances at Sam, who nods, solemn and equally anxious, “start with what you did this morning, Dean.”

 

Dean wipes a hand across his face, tries to gather his thoughts.

 

“I got up around seven…. did the usual things. Shower. Breakfast. Getting ready for work. A few minutes to eight I said goodbye to Cas, who was still in bed- he wasn’t feeling well,” Dean adds to Mills’ quizzical glance. “He’d been a bit woozy some mornings now, this nasty stomach flu he´s been carrying around for a few weeks, it doesn´t want to let go.”

 

Mills’ pen dances over her notepad and Dean gives her a moment to take her notes before he continues.

 

“I clocked in at the garage a little past eight, you can check with Bobby if you don’t believe me. I had back-to-back work until 11am, when I stopped for lunch at the Drop Inn.”

 

“And you didn’t contact your mate?”

 

Dean raises a hand defensively, “sure I did. I called him twice from the office phone, asking how he was doing. He said he was fine, that he was going to visit Hannah for lunch.”

 

“Anna?” Mills arches a brow, and Sam steps in, “she’s Castiel’s twin sister. She works on the farm, as a sheepdog.”

 

There’s a long, lingering pause where Jody Mills sorts through her knowledge of Shifter and werewolves societies.

 

“I though it was against the law for Shifters to take jobs that required their….your…other shape,” she makes a vague gesture at Dean.

 

“That’s true,” Sam says calmly, “Anna is all wolf. She isn´t a shifter. It’s rare, but it happens, just like me.”

 

“And you are Dean’s brother?”  
  
Sam nods, “my name is Sam and that’s Jesse,” he gives a little wave to Jesse returns it shyly. “She’s my wife, we run a small farm on the other side of the woods, about twenty minutes walk, for a wolf. A bit longer for a human.”

 

Mills scratches her brow, “right. Can you still…talk to Anna?”

 

Sam shakes his head, “wolves with family bonds can Link with her and get a sense of her wolf mind, but she doesn’t possess…logical thought and coherent speech. Coherent in a human sense, I mean.”

 

“I see,” Mills replies in a voice that tells them that she really doesn’t.

 

“Does Castiel have any other family members in the Territory?

 

“No, Cas was exiled from his Territory” Dean folds his arms over his chest, cages in the wolf, “I only know that the rest of his family lives near the Alaska borders, prefers a more arctic climate.”

 

“I see… how did you two meet then?”

 

“Is that really relevant- look, Cas is missing and-”

 

“I just want to get the entire picture of Castiel’s situation, get a sense of who he is.”

 

Dean growls, fully aware of his pack’s doleful eyes watching his every move and gauging his reactions.

 

“Look, it’s…complicated. I met Cas at a Gathering. Packs migrate, you know, families will spread out to avoid…inbreeding, a strain on the Territory, to avoid too many Alphas in one place. Once every five years, there're these meetings held for Shifters to find mates, to find homes for orphan children, to separate Shifters with too much bad blood between them.”

 

“Alright,” Mills says, her pen moving furiously across her notebook, “besides Anna, does Castiel have any contact with his family?”

 

“He writes greetings on the Great Moon to his oldest brother, Michael, but I get a feeling it’s more out of obligation than of affection. He doesn’t,” his jaw works, but it’s an effort to force the words out, “Cas doesn’t really talk about his past all that much. It was kind of really shitty, it wasn’t easy for Anna and him, his family is very….conservative. All about pure blood and such nonsense.”

 

“So, he wouldn’t seek them out for any reason?”

 

Dean shakes his head, trying to follow Mills’s train of thoughts. Did she really think Cas had left for Alaska without telling Dean? Cas who had vehemently refused to go to the last Gathering because of the slight chance that his siblings might be there?

 

“No,” he repeats, “Cas would never seek them out and he’d never leave without telling me.”

 

“Very well, what happened after lunch?”

 

Dean presses his lips together to a thin line, “I had a couple of easy jobs. Oil changes, changing tires. Around four, Cas called the garage and said he was heading back. I told him I hoped to be home around seven, but just past five this brunette called, said she was having car trouble. Originally I was just going to pull the car to the garage, but she promised to pay me double if I could fix it right away.”

 

Mills frowns at her notes and then glances up at Dean, “is this unusual? How did she act?”

 

Dean shrugs, “I could smell how uncomfortable she was, stank of perfume, something sharp and fruity. She was very antsy, kept checking her watch and tapping her foot. Not that unusual, most humans would be uncomfortable if their car broke down deep in Shifter Territory. She just wanted to get the heck out of there.”

 

“And when did you finish working on her car?”

 

“I called Cas, to tell him I was going to be late. He didn’t pick up the phone, so he was out running. I got back around eight or so, and that’s when I-”

 

“Was it unusual for Castiel?”

 

“No, he likes to run, he can spend hours roaming the woods. Since he lot his job he’s been spending even more time there.”

 

“Why did he lose his job?”

 

“The Council was reducing the library’s opening hours to just weekends and Cas was made redundant. He’s been trying to find a new job, but the job market in the Territory is rather limited.”

 

“Was he feeling depressed about losing his job?”

 

Dean can feel his defiance rising, why is Mills asking him all these unnecessary questions. She should be reporting Cas missing; she should be out looking for him, not dawdling with all these questions about their relationship and that goddamned woman that made him work overtime and Cas’s work situation.

 

If he’d just gone home instead and let Bobby deal with that stupid woman. A few hours earlier and Cas’s scent would still have been fresh enough to follow.

 

“No,” Dean grits out, “I mean, he wasn’t happy that I had to work overtime to pick up some extra on the paycheck. We’d had a row about it just last week.”

 

He regrets the words as soon as they are out and wants them back. He sees Mills’s posture deflates, feels the exasperated sigh brush over her skin.

 

With that one word, she’s concluded the case.

 

She’s not going to bother looking for Cas-

 

“So, maybe he’s just taken off to calm down. It’s not unusual with couples that are having trouble that one would want to get some distance, some time to himself.”

 

Quick as a viper, Dean reaches out and snags Mill’s wrist in a vice like grip. Mills freezes, rooted to the spot. Dean feels the growl from somewhere deep in his chest and cannot stop it from lashing out.

 

“Dean!” Sam cries, the rest of the pack murmuring moving further away from Dean, putting distance between themselves and the angry wolf. Except for Victor, who steps closer, as if he’s intending to put himself between Dean and Mills. Anna places a hand on his arm and whispers something that makes Victor gives a thin smile.

 

“He has not,” Dean growls, a visible and deadly threat, “gone for a walk to calm down.”

 

“Unhand me right now, Mr. Winchester, or I will book you for assaulting an officer,” Mills strains to keep her voice and posture relaxed and doesn’t try to pull her hand free. Dean doesn’t know it, but part of the training for officers working near the Territories is knowing how to handle an angry Shifter. She sees the feral gleam in Dean’s eyes and the way his eyes narrow to slits, feels the strength in his grip. He can crush all the bones in her arm if he wants to. There’s a reason why they warn little children about the Big Bad Wolf. Stay calm and collected, she thinks, address the human mind. It can be reasoned with, the beast cannot.

 

“Something has happened to him,” Dean growls. He feels the muscles in his chest bunch and clench, feels the wolf just beneath his skin, panting and scratching. Let me out, it breathes, let me out, let me out and I will find him. Dean’s vision dances in inky spots, the colors of the world fading to hue of black and white. He can feel the sharp edge of his canine teeth and then overwhelming data of smells and sounds rushes towards him a cacophony of data. The smell of deputy sheriff Mills, brown and thick and cloudy with fear, her heart beat racing in her chest, Sam’s unease twisting along the porch, and tangy sweat of his pack, hesitant, waiting. Victor’s low, threatening growl.

 

Their wolf will respond to their Alpha´s heir, even if their humans will not.

 

“Dean,” Sam’s voice is distant, “Dean you’re shifting, you need to stop now or Mills will collar you.”

 

The world slides back.

 

He lets go of Mill’s hand. His chest is tight and it’s hard to breathe and the sudden realization of what almost happened fills his stomach with dread and he hurries over to the edge of the porch, doubles over the railing and dry heaves.

 

Shit, shit, shit.

 

He almost let the wolf dictate a shift.  He grabs at the railing to keep himself upright when his legs almost give away. He feels Sam’s worried hand on his shoulder and twists away from it.

 

“I’m fine,” he croaks.

 

Dean cards his fingers through his hair and gulps in air in heavy lungful until his galloping heart eases its pace. He hasn’t lost control like this since he was a teenager, full of pent-up hormones and emotions and nearing his first mature season. He can’t permit it to happen again.

 

“Sorry,” he rasps, taking another step back. Mills rubs her hand around her wrist, studies the bruise flowering under her skin.

 

“I…” Dean turns away. He can’t let them see him like this. He closes his eyes, tries to find his equilibrium between human and wolf, tries to anchor his fear and anger.

 

He can’t let the wolf get the better of him; it would be an unforgivable trespass.

 

Mills clears her throat. When she speaks, her voice is calm and careful, like she’s speaking to the frightened animal in Dean.

 

“I need a description of your mate, and pictures if you have them, of both his forms.”

 

“Sure,” Dean says, “I will get them for you.”

 

“I also want you to see if there is anything missing, his wallet, papers, clothes.”

 

Dean nods again. Of course. He should have done these things already.

 

When he returns with the photographs, the air is still tense and brittle, like the thrums of a sheet of an ice, just before it cracks and breaks. Dean moves carefully forward.

 

“It was taken last year,” Dean says, suddenly feeling oddly sentimental over the photograph. He holds onto it for a moment too long.

 

Mills nods, accepting the photo and studying it, “he’s very handsome,” she says softly.

 

Dean swallows around the lump in his throat. Castiel is very striking as a wolf. Long, dense and fluffy fur, so soft it felt like spun cotton. The lower coat is light grey, the color growing dark along his flack and runs like a black stripe along his back, his tail and to the tip of his muzzle. It’s heaviest over his shoulders and his ears are round, almost rounded, like a bear´s. His eyes are the color of his human form, the crisp blue of the arctic sky.

 

“He’s about 112cm to his shoulder, about 50 kg. He’s got at thick, blue collar, with his name and address on it- as is required. He stands a little over 173 cm tall as a human. Dark hair, blue eyes. He’s always a snappy dresser, slacks and shirts.”

 

Mills scribbles this down, “any visible, distinguishing marks or any other information?”

 

“He’s got a scar on his right shoulder, a couple of centimeters long, running along his back- claw marks."

“And you don’t have cellphones?”

 

Dean shakes his head; “Cas says that the cellphone is like a leash, that it always makes us available to everyone, that we become beholden to its chimes. He’s a bit old fashioned when it comes to technology, I guess. Can’t stand computers, insists we keep the microwave in the garage to shield us from its rays and all such nonsense.”

 

Mills makes a note of this as well.

 

“I’ve just a final question. On the phone you confirmed that there are no signs of forced entry, no signs to indicated that somebody forced their way into the house, no signs that Cas has been injured or taken against his will.”

 

“Except for the sharp smell of cleaning fluids in the kitchen, no.”

 

“Mr. Winchester, I know that you are worried and that you don’t want to hear this, but in cases like this- the missing person almost always returns after a day or so. If you don’t hear from him in 48hrs, I will put out a report.”

 

“Right,” the words almost too thick to come out.

 

And then they leave, Mills, his pack, Sam and Jesse, all with grim, quiet smiles. Sam promises that they’ll keep calling around and Jesse says she’ll stop by later with some supper.

 

He’s alone and the evening settles in, dark and cloudless, with the first hints of spring on its wind. The kind of evenings Castiel loves.

 

Dean stands in their bedroom for a moment, before he lets his exhausted body fall forward. He burrows into the covers, tries to sniff out scent of his mate from his own. He presses Cas’s pillow to his face, inhales. It’s faint, hardly not even there, but he laps at it, devours it like a drowning man finally reaching the surface. Eventually, that too fades. He knows with a shattering certainty that Cas hasn’t wandered off to cool down. He hasn’t fled north to his family.

 

He’s just gone.

 

 

 When Dean pulls back and sees two wet spots on the fabric and realizes he’s crying. And then he suddenly feels it, this place where he keeps all his feelings for Cas is just an empty void. He closes his eyes, tries to blink away the tears. Something else settles there, a solid, sharp thing, liquefying before it settles down, dark and calm and certain and terrifying.

 

It knows its place, and it makes itself at home.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How Dean and Castiel met.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is in a bit of a mess because I am in a hurry. I will go through it and clean it up when I´m done with the stress that is moving.
> 
> Thank you for all your kudos and comments, it´s what keeps me writing.

**Warning:** mentions of Dean/other and Castiel/Victor. Very brief, nothing explicit.

 

**Chapter four.**

 

 Dean counts down the months, weeks, days to his first Gathering. The night before they depart he lies awake in his bed, twisting and turning his thoughts running every which way. He hasn´t been this excited since Mary told him he was going to be a big brother.

 For years, Dean´s been regaled with stories of the Gathering, the one time when packs leave their Territories and meet in distant, old places. For a whole week leading up to the full moon, Shifters from all over America will come together. The Elders will exchange news and discuss exchanging members of Packs that have too many or too few Alphas. There will be friendly competitions and not so friendly sparring, where young Alphas will challenge the ranks of their seniors. They will sleep under the open skies and howl at the moon.

 

 When John´s not around to hear it, Benny gleefully tells Dean about all the pretty betas looking for attention. Dean´s keen on the sort of attention Benny is talking about.  

“The dating pool is always going to be limited in a Territory,” Benny says, “and you know, betas talk, they compare notes.”

 

Dean wrinkles his nose and Sam looks like he´s bitten into something vile but is too polite to spit it out.

 

“So, this is Dean´s chance to acquire some experience,” he nudges Dean´s shoulder and Dean tries to stop the goofy smile from spreading on his face. He can´t help it, he´s eighteen and full of hopes and hormones.

 

“So you can impress the betas in the Territory,” Benny adds as if Dean´s not able to read between the lines.

 

“It´s gonna be great.”

 

“I want to find a mate,” Victor says, surprising all of them. 

 

“Why on Earth do you want to tie yourself down with a mate,” Benny asks, “you´re only twenty. Why´d you want that kind of commitment when you can have….”

 

Benny makes a wide gesture, encompassing the Gathering and the hundreds of beta girls milling about in short shorts and tight tank tops.

"You´re far too young to settle down, Victor," Dean says. Shit. Victor is his best friend, Dean doesn´t want him to settle down and leave Dean behind.

Benny grins, all teeth. He wraps an arm around Dean, tugging him close.

“You see, Dean´s got the right of it, man. You should spend your youth sampling…. the merchandise, acquiring a taste for your preference.”

 

Dean grimaced and thugs free of Benny´s embrace.

 

Victor huffs, “you´re disgusting, Benny.”

 

Benny shrugs, still smiling widely.

 

“Ugh, I don´t want to listen to this, ” Sam complains, “Dean will you follow me back to our camp?”

 

“Can´t you find your own way back, Sammy?” Dean says, his eyes lingering on a brunette that walks back, all legs and figure like an hourglass. Even in human form, Dean can pick up her artificial scent, glossy and sweet. She winks at him, and Dean feels his wolf begging to follow her.

 

Sam rolls his eyes and hooks his arm into the crook of Dean´s elbow.

 

“Dad said you were not allowed to to leave me alone, remember.”

 

Right, because Sam´s a human in a camp full of wolves and there´s those who still have stupid ideas of pure bloodlines. Hells, there are even those who thinks humans should be hunted for sport.

 

The Winchester camp is on the very edge of the Territory, away from the clamor and klaxon of the fighting rings, safe enough for Sammy.

 

At dusk, Dean shift and he´s immediately assaulted by an avalanche of scents. Colors from every hue of his imagination crisscross across the camp, as if somebody´s spilled a box of watercolors. For a while Dean sits on his haunches, letting his nose sort through the different fragrances, picking up the musky, black trail from his father, the anxious brown from Sam. Dean wonders if he´s regretting insisting coming with them to this Gathering. It can´t be easy, being the only human in a camp of wolves. He picks up the scent of the brunette beta too, pink and sweet and oh so alluring. It´s an easy trail to follow and Dean follows it through the camp, brushing past bare legs, circling empty cans of beer and broken glass. He thinks about the brunette, wonders if she´s winked at other alphas. If he´s going to have to fight them to show her he´s the better choice.

 

Tantalizing fragrances shifts and flickers on the evening breeze, the smell of betas and alphas in heat, the tangy scents of couples mating.Heat curls along his spine and pools in his stomach. Dean rises, his tail wagging, despite his human mind trying its best to keep his sudden raging hormones under control. It isn´t easy to herd the Wolf away from its instinct to join the throng of moving bodies and seek a temporary mate, willingly or not.

 

Suddenly, the wind shifts, the pink trail disappears and the faintest tendril of blue curls over his muzzle. Dean feels every muscle, every cell in his body freeze. He lifts his head, follows the trail with his nose, desperate to reach out and make contact. It´s the most amazing scent Dean´s ever tasted and he bounds after it as the wind drags it along the ground. The brunette is forgotten.

 

The scent grows ever fainter, but Dean´s got one of the best noses in the Territory, and he refuses to lose the scent of something so wondrous. The grows stronger, more poignant. The source is close and-

 

He rounds the corner of the food tent and comes to a stop.

 

Victor is bracing a hand against the wall, his body corralling the form of a short guy who´s looking up at Victor with large, blue eyes. He´s got to be a few years younger than Dean.  He´s dressed in dogeared boots and clothes so caked in dirt and grime they could probably stand on their own. His skin is slightly tanned, and Dean distinguishes the scent of foreign mud, of the spring sun, of rain and days upon days of traveling. Ribbons of blue pools around his feet.

 

 

Dean´s never considered the option of finding a guy attractive and the sudden understanding is almost a cruel gift. Arousal pools in his groin with such heat it´s almost painful. His wolf wants this guy. Hells, he will fight Victor for him.

 

You wouldn't need a canine´s nose to tell that Victor is interested in the guy. His pheromones are thick and cloying with the scent of sweat and sex. It stings Dean´s nose like that time Sam had tricked him into stuffing his nose into a pile of pepper.

 

The guy, however, is masking his interest, his eyes never locking with Victor´s, darting to his shoes and to the campfire, both arms folded over his chest, his left foot tapping an uneven rhythm. But, Victor says something that makes the guy laugh and Dean feels something curdle inside his stomach. He mouth curls in a half snarl, his claws digging into the ground. And then, something shifts on the guy´s face. His mouth tilts a little to the left and he whispers something to Victor. Then he looks up and straight at Dean.

 

They eyes meet and Dean tries desperately to lock his gaze with his. Look at me, his wolf says, his tail wagging. The guy´s eyes widens and he pushes himself out from under Victor´s embrace. He walks towards Dean, a small, soft smile on his face. Dean feels his stupid tail thumping eagerly against the ground as the stranger draw closer. Is the smile just for him? The wolf thinks he might even let him pet him, if he was so inclined.

 

But the guy walks straight past Dean. Confused, Dean turns and sees him kneeling in front of a large, dark wolf with flecks of grey and black in its coat. Its scent curls along the ground, bland and grey. Feral. Animal. The guy places a hand on the wolf´s head, and Dean frowns. He knows Sam is rare, being born fully human to shifter parents. A wolf born to shifter parents is even rarer.

 

Victor hooks his thumbs into the his belts and strolls across the ground. He winks at Dean, lets his hand land on his head for a moment. Dean recoils at the touch, his ears flattening.

 

(Nice to see you, Dean.)

 

(Victor,) Dean allows, shutting down the Link before he gives too much away.

 

“This is my sister, Anna,” the stranger explains. Victor nods thoughtfully, keeping a respectable distance between the pair.

 

“She´s magnificent, Castiel.”

 

The name leaps at Dean, and feels his heart doing summersaults in his chest.

 

Castiel smiles, small and brittle.

 

“She´s my best friend,” he says, though Dean thinks he meant to say that she´s his only friend.

 

“Is this the reason you guy left your pack?” Victor´s tone is serious.

 

“Among others.”

 

“You should come meet my pack,” Victor says, “both of you,” he adds quickly.

 

Castiel looks hesitant, his eyes still on his sister.

 

“We´re a pretty opened minded bunch,” Victor continues, “youngest son of the Alpha is all human.”

 

That grabs Castiel´s attention.

 

“Really?”

 

“Yeah, but our Alpha treats him like one of us,” Victor shrugs, “he´s even here, at the Gathering. Why don´t you come and say hello.”

 

“I guess that would be alright,” Castiel concedes. Victor smiles and loops an arm around Castiel´s shoulder. Castiel tenses, his scent uncertain, defensive, but after a second he relaxes and allows Victor to lead him towards the Winchester´s camp.

 

Anna and Dean trails after them.

 

The pack rises to attention as soon as Castiel crosses the perimeter to their camp.  They huddle together, curious whispers and glances. Castiel hunches his shoulders, shrugging free from Victor´s arm and folding his arms over his chest.

 

“Just relax,” Victor coaxes, but Castiel carries himself like a man who´s just entered a minefield.

 

“Victor,” Johns´s voice is cooled to the point of frost. Sam is standing behind him, his confused expression echoing Dean´s thoughts. Why is their father suddenly so hostile when he´s always been welcoming of new blood in the past?

 

Victor can´t suppress his surprise fast enough to prevent it from reaching his face, “Alpha.” He pauses, swallows, “this is Castiel who- I would like permission to court him.”

 

John lifts his gaze, lets it fall heavy over Castiel who stands frozen to the spot. Next to him, Anna growls, her ears flat against her head.

 

“Castiel,” John says, an edge to his voice, “you´re the-”

 

“- the omega,” a voice rumbles.

 

A tall, lean man steps into the camp, ten weasly looking Shifters at his heels. John twists towards him, his eyes narrowed, but he does´t say anything. Dean´s blood runs cold. Alistair is infamous for only one thing, and that is being a nasty bastard who killed his own mate when she failed to carry her litter to term.

 

“Unlike the Winchester pack,” Alistair says with a bearly concealed sneer, “the rest of us still remembers the Old Ways.”

 

Words of agreement and small nods spreads through Alistair´s pack. Dean steals a glance at Castiel, he´s got a hand on Anna´s head, though it´s probably as much for his comfort as hers.

 

Victor takes a slight step in front of Castiel, blocking his view.

 

“We follow the Old Ways,” Victor´s hands curls to fists, “just not the barbaric ones.”

 

Alistair laughs, a harsh, braying sound.

 

“I understand that you´re all for embracing civilization,” the last word is spat like a curse. Alistair spreads his arms wide, gesturing to John as he turns to his pack, “but unlike the Winchesters, we know what we are, we remember the Name of the Moon.”

 

More people are nodding, a few whistling, cheering. A man howls. It carries on through the camp, picking up in a distant crescendo.

 

“And at this Gathering you cannot deny the right to the Old Ways.”

 

Dean´s father remains still, though his eyes are watching Alistair´s every movement.

 

“Speak your piece, Alistair, or move along.”

 

Alistair frowns, thorn by his decision to disregard the old Alpha and adhering to the respect the status affords John.

 

He turns slowly to Victor and Castiel.

 

“As everybody here as my witness, know that declare the right the Rites.”

 

Several guys whoops and shrieks. Victor goes stone still, his knuckles turning white. Castiel´s scent goes cold and for a moment Dean wonders if Castiel is actually going to be sick. He stands firm, however, whispering something to Victor. Victor shakes his head and pushes Castiel further back.

 

“In the name of the moon, I am declaring the Old Rites,” Alistair repeats, louder to the howls and cheers of his pack, “I will fight for the breeding rights with the omega, and when I´m done, I´ll let others in my pack have a go.”

 

More hoots and whistles follows this declaration.

 

Castiel is fighting to keep his face blank, but Dean senses the wisp of utter terror filling the air. Others are sensing it too, turning their heads away from the wind, averting their gaze.

 

A look of desperation fills Victor´s eyes, before he forces his gaze away.

 

Dean feels Sam´s hand tugging his elbow.

 

“Dean,” Sam whispers, “what are the Old Rites? Why is everybody reacting so strangely.”

 

Dean swallows around the lump in his throat.

 

Victor´s a strong guy. Young, and healthy. But as long as Dean´s known him he´s been a terrible fighter. Alistair may look lean and weak, but he´s fast and vicious. He´ll use every dirt trick in the book. Victor will lose and Castiel will be Alistair´s trophy.

 

Victor knows this, and it´s why he´s not looking at anybody.

 

“Dean!”

 

“It´s….like an old courting ritual,” Dean says, wondering how to explain it in a way that won´t give his twelve year old brother nightmares. “It´s an old tradition to determine mating rights. It´s a fight, usually to the death.”

 

“What?” Sam´s eyes widens in comprehension, “but that´s horrible. Doesn´t Castiel get any say in this?” 

“He´s an omega, Sam. Lowest rank in any pack, and one that was either exiled or abandoned his pack- he´s got no family to speak for him. If Alistair says he wants to fight Victor for him, then he´s got the right to do so.”

 

“What if Castiel just…runs away?”

 

“How far do you think he´ll get before Alistair tracks him down?”

 

Sam winces. He does´t want to picture Castiel chased through the woods and hunted down like an animal.

 

“That Rite hasn´t been used in centuries, Alistair,” Victor growls, “we don´t treat people like possessions.”

 

Alistair cranes his neck, “omegas are possessions, Victor, why should the Winchester pack get him? He could breed fine pups for all of us,” Alistair gestures to his cackling pack again.

 

“Well, is anybody going to challenge the Rite, or do you forfeit?” Alistair asks archly.

 

Dean glances at Victor. He´s taken a few steps away from Castiel. He scrubs a hand over the back of his neck his head bent to the omega. They exchange words, Castiel pursing his lips, his blue eyes darting from Benny, to Alistair to the woods. It seems as though Castiel is calculating his odds of escaping and coming up short. There´s pain in the hunched set of his shoulders, as if he´s already confined himself to his fate.

 

At that very moment, Dean is certain he hates Victor. He´s about to hand over Castiel to be used by Alistair´s pack without even fighting for him.

 

“I challenge you.”

 

The packs turn to him. Castiel´s eyes are impossibly wide, one hand still grasping Victor´s elbow.

 

Alistair´s eyes narrows to slit.

 

“Who are you?”

 

“Dean Winchester,” Dean takes a step towards Alistair, hoping his voice doesn´t betray his confidence.

 

“You should be careful of what you say, whelp. I´m feeling generous today, I´ll give you a chance to rescind your declaration.”

 

Dean feels Sam tug on his arm and yanks it free.

 

“Dean!” Sam hisses, “you can´t!”

 

He glances across the camp, sees his father. John is standing with his arms crossed, for a second their eyes lock and then he gives Dean the smallest of nods. It´s all Dean needs.

 

“I challenge you for the Old Rites, Alistair,” Dean repeats, “and I too am feeling generous today, so I will allow it to be until first yield.”

 

Alistair laughs, a low, rumbling sound that seems to seep from the very bones of the man.

 

“You´re feeling generous, whelp,” he cackles, “very well, until first yield.”

 

The camp separates. Excited whispers and hisses, money being exchanged and bets called. Dean walks resolutely to his tent, Sam hot on his heels.

 

“Dean, Dean!” he calls, “Alistair´s-”

 

“Don´t, Sammy,” Dean replies, shrugging off his jacket and unlacing his boots.

 

Sam falters, his mouth set in a thin line.

 

“Good luck,” is all he says.

 

Dean knows he´s going to need more than just luck.

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Warning for wolf-like violence, I guess.**

 

**Chapter five.**

 

Dean folds his shirt and socks, placing them in a neat pile by the end of his sleeping mat. It’s an oddly cathartic ritual like he’s just preparing to go to bed. He’s down to his boxers and t-shirt when he hears the rustle of the tent flap being pulled aside. Dean turns, expecting his father, maybe even Sammy, and almost chokes on his breath when he sees Castiel standing there.

 

The guy looks like shit. His skin is flushed and his eyes are puffy and red. He’s clutching the tent flap so hard his knuckles are white and angry flecks of red is spreading along his thin neck. Still, all Dean could do is inhale in his scent, almost dizzy with the sensation.

 

They hold eyes for a moment, Castiel is the first to look away, “you don’t have to do this,” he says quietly.

 

“Sure I do,” Dean replies trying to sound more confident than he feels. He tugs his shirt over his head and digs his fingers into the fabric to hide his jittery nerves.

 

“You don’t even know me, and you’re risking your life for me,” Castiel looks up, searching his face. Dean doesn’t know what he finds there, but Castiel yanks the shirt out from Dean’s hands, smooths out the wrinkles and carefully folds the garment, placing it with the rest of his clothes.

 

Dean finally finds his voice, “Alistair’s an asshole, nobody should have to live with him.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

Dean shrugs, like risking his life for a stranger is no big deal.

 

Castiel steps past him, finds Dean’s collar by the pillow. He runs his hands along the brown leather and then turns to Dean with a question in his eyes.

 

Dean bends his head and allows Castiel to slip the collar around his neck. He closes his mouth as he feels Castiel’s warm exhale ghost over the back of his neck, feels the tips of his finger glance across his skin.

 

Then he turns away, and without another word, walks out of the tent.

 

Dean stands for a moment, breathing in the lingering scents of Castiel, collects his scattering thoughts. He fills his lungs and counts to twenty before he shifts.

 

When he steps outside, Castiel is there, waiting. His wolf form is even scrawnier than Castiel is as a human. His fur is dull and with every moment, flakes of dandruff drizzles from his shoulders. He’s not wearing a collar and Dean wonders how long he’s been traveling without one. Even shifters without packs will tie a rope or cord around their neck so that they aren’t mistaken animals and hunted.

 

He steps back and allows Dean to pass, his blue eyes following him.

 

Dean feels a gentle nudge against his mind, an unfamiliar presence brushing against his, asking for permission. Dean lowers his shield and lets Castiel’s mind Link with his own, filling his thoughts.

 

(Dean,) unbridled worry flutters along his senses, (you really don’t need to go through with it this.)

 

Dean glances over his shoulder at Castiel.

 

(I really do. All this nonsense about the Old Ways and breeding rights, if we let stuff like that go unchallenged we’ll....) he trails off, not sure where his train of thoughts were going. Instead, he settles for:  (Alistair needs to be taken down a peg.)

 

They make their way across the camp. A large crowd has gathered around the fighting pits, Alistair and his cronies to the right, the Winchester pack to the left.  The fighting pits do not really earn up to their name. It’s almost a large bowl, the left and right sloping up to small mounds while the rest of the area is surrounding by dense woodland. Dean’s been here a few times before, watching wolves and humans spar. It looks bigger now, the edges of it surrounded by eager spectators. On top of the right mound Alistair waits.

 

Alistair’s wolf form is massive, standing almost two heads taller than Dean, he’s got broad shoulders and paws the size of dinner plates. His scent is a stygian gloom of red and black and it coils along the camp, engulfing all other scents. Almost, Dean can still tell his brother’s anxious smell through the throng of humans and wolves. Victor, however, is nowhere.

 

A growl builds in Alistair’s pack. It’s quickly picked up by other wolves and humans. It’s a wordless, heavy noise, but Dean understands its substance, the cry for blood.  Dean feels his back curl defensively, his ears flat on his head and his lips pulled back in a snarl, showing only the front of his teeth. The wolf in him wants to leap at Alistair, catch him off guard and bring him down.

 

“Allrigth,”  a slim woman enters the middle of the pit. She’s got graying hair and is shaped like a soda bottle steps into the arena. She raises her hands and the crowd falls quiet.

 

“I am Matriarch Denenzy. In front of witnesses, Alistair has declared the Old Rites,” the woman’s voice is drowned in howling and it takes several minutes for her to regain control of the crowd.

 

“Now, some of you young ones may not know what this entails.”

 

More screeching and growling.

 

“It’s about breeding rights,” Matriarch Denenzy continues undaunted, “breeding rights to an unmated omega with no pack. The right does not only extend to the alpha, but to whoever he would wish to share it with.”

 

Dean feels Castiel’s embarrassment prickling through the Link.  He glances at Castiel, sees his hunched shoulders, his ears low, his belly almost brushing the ground as he tries to make himself invisible.

 

“You may wonder what makes this omega so special,” she gestures to Castiel who has pressed himself flat to the ground, “I mean he’s not much to look at….”

 

Eager howls and whistles, somebody voicing their disagreement. Hoots and cackles. Dean feels his hackles rise in annoyance.

 

“But omegas are known to be exceptionally fertile and with dropping birth rates amongst us shifters, we can understand their desire to stake their claim.”

 

Shame and humiliation wafts from Castiel, so thick it is almost solid.

 

“This will be a fight to the first yield,” the Matriarch continues, “ the first one to be brought down and pinned, loses the match.”

 

Alistair’s packs are sitting on their haunches, their heads tilted to the sky, ears flat as they howl and bark. The sound cuts like a knife, deep into the wolf’s mind. Come and get me, it cries and Dean wonders if Alistair has planned this, has agitated them in an attempt to distract him.

 

They stand on opposite sides. Dean curls his paws into the ground, watching as Matriarch Denenzy raises a pale blue flag. For a mere minute, the crowd goes silent, teetering on the brink and then-

 

-The signal flag is dropped at Alistair bounds across the pit, mouth open, tongue lolling and tail waving high with confidence. The wolf in him hesitates, confused at Alistair’s body language. Why is he playing?

 

His human mind rushes to take control, he knows doesn't have a moment to lose and he leaps across the pit. Dean is expecting Alistair to jump right at him, and he’s baffled when the large wolf bounds past him, continuing towards the edge of the fighting ring. His human mind warns of a trap, but the wolf in him skids, turns, and dashes after him.

 

For a few minute it’s nothing but a disorientating chase all around the pit, where Dean feels an utter fool for allowing Alistair to lead him around.

 

And then.

 

The chase is over.

 

Just as Dean is getting closer and preparing for Alistair to leap away for another run around the pit, Alistair turns with vicious speed going straight for Dean’s throat. He twists away and feels Alistair’s teeth sink into his shoulders. He bucks and howls, and the larger wolf quickly loses his grip.

 

This time, Dean’s the hunted.

 

Alistair comes at him, ears flat, tail low and mouth open in a snarl. Dean hears the eager howls and yips from the pack. His mind reels through his options. Alistair is larger and stronger, and the recent chase shows that he’s fast too. But the way his tongue his hanging out, the slight tremor in his muscles tells Dean that he is getting tired. For a dizzying moment, he thinks that he can simply outrun Alistair, let him continue to chase him around the pit until the old alpha is too tired.

 

Left. Right. Dodge. Veer to one side. Turn. Run.

 

Dean nears the end of the pit and is preparing for another twist to the  left when Alistair’s jaw locks around the tip of the tail. The bite is not painful, but the sudden weight throws him off balance, he loses his momentum and stumbles to the ground. He falls, hard, landing on his shoulder and feels the sudden impact vibrate all along his spine. For a heartbeat Dean’s nose fills with the scent of soil and the cloying scent of blood and loss.

 

(Dean, to your right!)

 

He hears Castiel’s voice through the Link and rolls away, hearing Alistair’s jaw snap shut with a click so hard it could have cut his tongue in two. Dean shakes away the fall, clear his head and leaps away just in time to avoid Alistair’s second attack.

 

(Stop dancing around, whelp,) Alistair’s mind cuts through the Link, drowning Castiel’s panicked voice.

 

Dancing, Dean thinks, is the only thing keeping him safe from Alistair’s ruthless fangs, constantly seeking his throat. Dean leaps right, and the older wolf barrels after him. He feels the nips and rips of Alistair’s teeth scraping against his flank, clinking uselessly against the leather of his collar.

 

He can’t let Alistair draw blood.

 

Dean loses all track of time, the only thing on his mind is the large alpha chasing him around the pit and how to avoid his teeth. He’s not sure how long they continue this crazy spar, but Alistair’s scent changes, growing weaker until it’s mingled with the smell of all the other spectators.

 

Suddenly, they find themselves on opposite ends of the pit. Alistair is crouched, tail cocked, lips pulled back, baring his fangs. His ears are tilted forward, picking up ever beat of Dean’s heart. His eyes are wild and merciless. The wolf mind recognizes the threat display in Alistair’s posture, the one an alpha would use in an attempt to regain control of subordinate pack members. But Dean isn’t going to yield that easily.

 

(This is irksome, whelp,) Alistair growls. He lowers his head, pads slowly towards the center of the pit. Dean feels the thundering rush of blood in his ears and he struggles to rein in the wolf mind. Keep calm, he thinks. Watch out for another of his tricks. Dean steps forward, his ears flickering back and forth, picking up the lack of howls and barks as the other wolves go suspiciously quiet.

 

When only a few feet separates them, Dean crouches, gathers his strength, tries to imagine the blow, how to hit Alistair’s underbelly, his weakest spot. All it would take is to make him lose his balance, then he can pin him down and then the fight will be over.

 

His lips curls back, his mouth opens and Dean leaps.

 

It happens in an instant.

 

One second Alistair’s canine eyes are locked on him and in the next instant a naked, human, male stands in front of him. His shift is so fluid, Dean hasn’t even noticed the change of his scent. His instincts floods him, because attacking a shifter in human form is against all rules, old and new.

 

A pair of strong hands clamps around his muzzle, digs into the soft flesh under his eyes and forces Dean to lowers his head, pressing him down until his belly almost touches the ground.

 

Dimly he hears the roar of the crowd, some are still cheering them on, while others are complaining about Alistair’s lack of respect for the rules. The referee, however, makes no move to intercede.

 

“Be a good doggy,” Alistair snarls, the tips of his fingers pressing painfully against Dean’s flesh, “and heel.”

 

Dean scrambles for purchase, digs his paws, his claws into the ground, pressing up against Alistair as the man bears down on him, his smile yellow and very, very sharp.

 

Alistair’s thumbs brush up against Dean’s muzzle, “how about if I squeeze your eyes into your head,” he murmurs, low and tight, “you know any blind shifters, huh?”

 

Dean shuts his eyes so hard he sees stars.

 

The wolf mind struggles for control, ears flat, tail tucked between his legs and his belly pressing closer, and closer to the ground. His mind is white with pain.

 

“Sit….” Alistair coos.

 

Dean shifts his legs, tries to broaden his stance and fight the pain against his eyes, the feeling of the vice like grip around his muzzle. For a fleeting moment, Alistair’s grin, gives away to a grimace, and then there’s a loud whistle.

 

Alistair breaks away and Dean tries to shake the cloud of pain out of his eyes.

 

The crowd titters nervously, Alistair paces the length of the pit, shouting something angrily at the pack. Dean sees it then, the long, slim marks on Alistair’s shin.

 

He can’t even remember making them.

 

“It was until first blood,” the Matriarch calls, her lips quirking in a little half smile.

 

“This hardly counts,” Alistair growls, “it’s hardly a scratch.”

 

The woman shrugs, “blood was drawn, Alistair. You agreed to these terms.”

 

It takes Dean’s pain addled mind a few minutes to realize that he’s standing as the victor, that he actually won.

 

He pulls himself up to his full height, feeling every agonizing throb and burn to his very bones.  The crowd continues to move uneasily, Alistair’s voice of complaint growing louder, other members of his pack adding their disagreement to the choir.

 

But Dean only has eyes for Castiel, who is standing at the far edge of the camp, as if he was ready to bolt the moment Dean lost. His ears tilts forward, his head hung low, and then he slowly trots towards Dean. He wishes he could stop his stupid tail from wagging happily. Dean’s mind skims along Castiel’s mind, careful and urging. He sees the taunt T of Castiel’s shoulder, the way the wolf pauses, and hesitates and then his mind opens to Dean.

 

(Dean….) Castiel starts, his voice quivering. Dean blinks water out of his eyes, his head still pounding.

 

(Didn’t have any faith in me, huh?) teasing and careful. Castiel’s eyes flickers to the ground.

 

(I would have run as well,) Dean hurries to add, moving closer to Castiel until they are standing shoulder to shoulder. Dean brushes slightly against Castiel, not seeking his gaze, letting him know they are equal, that Dean has no attention to assert his dominance over the omega. Castiel smells wonderful, and Dean basks in his scent, letting it fill his nose and mind completely. Mine, the wolf thinks, and before Dean can reel in the instinct, his tongue flickers over Castiel’s muzzle. Castiel’s pupils goes ridiculously dark, and for a moment Dean thinks he’s actually going to flee. But then he relaxes, his ears pricks towards Dean, and he leans against his shoulder. A few heartbeats later, Dean feels a wet nose nuzzling along his cheek. Deep down, Dean knows that their Bonding courtship has begun.

 

(I’m glad you won) Castiel huffs a laugh along the Link, (I’d-)

 

Castiel’s eyes widen. He crouches. Dean’s about to ask what is wrong, when Castiel vaults over him. Dean turns, just in time to see Alistair’s arm swinging at him, a large, sharp rock in his hand. Castiel’s faster and he barrels into Alistair, pushing him away.

 

The two of them go down in a tangle of limbs, human and wolf. Alistair is still clutching the rock, his aim now at Castiel’s head rather than Dean’s. There is a loud howl and Dean can’t even tell if the cry comes from Castiel or the large, reddish wolf that suddenly runs into the pit.

 

It’s utter chaos wolves and humans flooding the arena with angry roars and shouts. The referrer keeps blowing her whistle, but nobody is listening.

 

Dean sees Castiel struggling to his feet, the slight wobble to his stance and his mind fills with dread. Did Alistair manage to hit him? Shifters are stronger and more resilient than humans, but aside from silver, they are vulnerable to head wounds.

 

Castiel staggers across the fighting pit, weaving between the throng of moving bodies, Alistair at his heels. Dean howls, but his voice stifled by the angry snarls and shouts of wolf and human. Mine! The wolf snarls and Dean jump into the fight

 

Is Alistair going to assert his claim, the rules, old and new, be damned?

 

Dean closes his eyes, gathers his scattering thoughts. He shifts because he needs the rational, human mind to be in control. Even with this feeble excuse for a nose, he can pick out Castiel’s scent and his heart skips a beat when he recognizes the coppery traces of blood.

 

(Castiel!)

 

He throws everything he has through the Link. After a few harrowing seconds, he senses Castiel’s mind, a disoriented mess of emotions and thoughts.

 

“Move,” Dean nudges a tall, skinny, guy out of his way, veers around two wolves who are engaged in a vicious display of snapping.

 

(Castiel, where are you?)

 

(Dean, I’m-)

 

Dean presses forward.

 

A sharp elbow digs into his side, a wolf snarls at his heels, and he ducks away from the embrace of a large woman who seems intent to kiss him.

 

At the edge of the pit the spectators still stand, huddled together with restless eyes. Young shifters, those few without packs, women and children, the smell of their unease almost impenetrable. Dean can’t help but think of the new borders and packs that are going to emerge because of this fight. Even family bonds are immune to the hierarchy of packs.

 

“Dean!”

 

Sam emerges from within the crowd, his eyes wide with fear.

 

“Dean, have you seen dad, he-”

 

“Castiel,” Dean urges, all thought of his father banished to the bottom of his priority list, “have you seen Castiel? Alistair is still after him!”

 

Sam takes a step back, shaking his head, “I haven’t seen them Dean, but you gotta help dad, I think he’s in the middle there- I think he’s fighting-”

 

Dean freezes and glances over his shoulder at the fight. It’s thinning out, the lower ranking wolves already defeated and seeking refuge, but there’s at least fifteen alphas still fighting for dominance. Their dad has been pack leader for over twenty years, and while his seniority should grant him some respect, he has to prove his worth as pack leader in this free for all fight.

 

 

“I…” Dean hesitates, if their father loses, the Winchester pack might get a new leader, or worse, they might be ordered to disperse, to exile.  He glances at Sam, who has almost chewed his lower lip to blood.

 

(Dean, where….)

 

Castiel’s thought drifts through the Link, meek and feeble.

 

“I’ll be back soon, Sammy, stay here.”

 

“But, Dean-”

 

“Stay!” Dean orders, even if he knows Sam’s not got the  instincts of a shifter to heed his command.

 

“At least, put some clothes on,” Sam calls after him, but Dean doesn’t care about modesty.

 

He only cares about finding Castiel.

 

Dean moves forwards follows Castiel’s presence through the thick undergrowth, the sound from the camp growing dimmer with each footstep. Castiel’s smell is faint here, where hundreds of other scents battle for dominance. Wood. Trees. Rain. Mud. Flowers. Herbs. Spices. Animals.He recognizes Alistair’s cloying darkness, the dim trails of a wolf.

 

“Castiel!” He cups his hands to his mouth. He holds his breath, and then feels the slight pull on his Link as Castiel guides him through the trees.

 

He finds them at the foot of a massive pine.

 

Alistair is on the ground, face down, his hands wrapped protectively over the back of his neck. On his naked back stands a large, dark animal, flecks of black and gray in her coat. Anna’s scent washes over Alistair like a thick smog. She growls when he sees Dean, baring her teeth over her prey.

 

“Get this bitch off me!” Alistair yells. Anna’s ears flatten and she snaps at Alistair’s fingers.

 

Castiel is sitting on the ground, next to his sister, blinking blood out of his eyes. His hand is clutching his forehead and blood oozes between his fingers. He glances at Dean with a hazy smile.

 

“This is Anna,” Castiel says around the lump in his throat. He tries to stand and Dean rushes to his side when his legs give away. He wraps a hand around his skinny shoulders, presses Castiel to his side and inhales his scent. Mine, the wolf says contently.

 

“I am feeling a bit woozy,” Castiel remarks and Dean grits out a brittle laugh.

 

“You need to see a Healer,” he adds, “keep the pressure on the wound.”

 

Castiel nods, but his knees buckles at his next step. Anna growls.

 

“Good girl,” Dean murmurs, tightening his grip on Castiel.

 

He doesn’t quite know it yet, but he will never really let go.

 

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is where the angst warnings starts to earn their tags.

**Chapter six.**

 

Castiel is a skinny guy, with sinewy limbs and Dean’s fingers slide across his ribs and the jut of his shoulder digs uncomfortably into his. Blood is still oozing from the wound on his head, running in a river across his brow and down his cheek. Dean has to remind himself that head wounds always bleed a lot, that they always look worse than they are.

“Your sister is quite something,” Dean offers, struggling for something to say. Keep the patient talking as long as possible, his mother used to say, keep them lucid, keep them calm.

“She’s very protective,” Castiel replies, his blood slick fingers slips and slides against Dean’s wrist. Dean secures his arms tighter around Castiel’s frame.

Dean bites his lips to keep himself from saying what he really wants to say, “you’re worth protecting,” and “I’ll take care of you.”Instead, he guides Castiel through the throng of trees, being careful to steer him clear of rocks and roots.

The way back to the camp seems that much longer now that he’s accompanied by the sound Castiel’s labored breathing. Shafts of pale, morning light cuts through the treetops, illuminating the first tendril of mists that creeps slowly from somewhere deeper in the forest.

“You could come back with us, to our Territory. Both of you.»

Castiel stops, closes his eyes for a moment and Dean rushes to add, “only if you wanted to, I mean, I’m not going to- I would like it if you came, and I’m sure Victor would-”

“No, I….” Castiel averts his gaze.

Dean feels a miserable tightness lodge itself in his throat and wonders why he’s in such a rush to hand Castiel over to Victor.

“I don’t want to be anybody’s possession,” Castiel says with an icy note of warning.

Castiel hunches his shoulders

“I know,” Dean starts, “it’s not what I meant, you don’t have to-” he sighs, as the jumble of emotions clogs his throat. He wants Castiel to stay, with him.

“If you want to go somewhere else, I’ll make sure you’ll get there safely.»

Castiel doesn´t answer. He starts walking again, and Dean hurries to his side, hesitating before he wraps his arm around Castiel’s shoulders again. But Castiel falls against him, his one free hand locking around Dean’s wrist.

They walk for a moment in silent, the early morning fog moving in hazy ribbons around their ankles, brushing their knees.

“Thank you, Dean,” Castiel says quietly, “I think I’d like to go with you if my sister can come.»

“Of course, she’s family.»

They walk for a few more minutes in the eerie morning silence. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Dean knows that this quiet is not...it´s not how it should be. They should be able to hear the camp now, howls and shouts and cries.

Castiel sighs heavily and staggers a few steps, stirring the mist.

“You alright?”Dean pauses, his eyes moves to Castiel’s temple, searching for signs of any wounds he might have missed. Maybe he shouldn't have moved Castiel, maybe he should have run back for help instead of dragging him through the forest. Goddamned, where is the camp? Has he managed to get them lost?

“Yeah,” Castiel’s Adam´s apple works against his words, “it’s just my stomach.»

A litany of warnings rolls through Dean’s memory. Cracked ribs. Ruptured spleen, damage to his kidneys, internal bleeding.

“Let’s pick up the pace,” Dean clears his throat to get rid of the panic that lodges itself there, hard and sharp.

Castiel manages a few more steps, stifling his groans and twisting his face in pain. His breath comes in ragged puffs of air, every beat a painful reminder of his fight with Alistair, how he leapt in and saved Dean´s life.

The mist wafts between the tall trees, distorting their view, turning the tall pines to dark, spindly shapes.

Where the hell did this fog come from?

Dean takes a deep breath, tries to let his wolf’s senses guide him back to the camp. But he can’t distinguish any familiar scents or sounds, not from Sammy, not from his dad, Victor, Benny or any of the other pack members. He wonders if he should Shift, maybe he can run ahead and find help.

(Dean, don’t leave me,) Castiel’s voice crawls through their Link.

(I’m not, I won´t ) he quietly assures, he slides a hand up Castiel’s bare arm, across his shoulder and touches his cheek. His skin is cold and clammy, sticky with something that could be blood or tears. Dean feels his panic surge and tries to suppress it, bury it somewhere it won’t be allowed to interfere.

He can panic later when Castiel is safe.

“I feel very strange,” Castiel muses, clutching his stomach.

“It’s gonna be alright,” Dean assures him.

“Dean, I-”

Castiel sobs, a hand on his stomach as he falls to his knees. He curls into a ball, his forehead pressed against the cold, hard, ground, his fingers digging into the soil.

“It really hurts,” he whimpers.

Dean cards his hands through his hair, stands there, utterly helpless.

Where the hell is the camp?  
Why hasn’t his dad, or Sam, sent anybody out to look for them.  
  
He sags down next to Castiel, carefully puts a hand on his bare back, feels every jump and shiver of his muscles.

“Hey, Cas, Cas,” he urges, running a hand up and down his back. It’s a feeble, useless gesture, and Castiel moans in pain, one hand scrambling across the ground.

“Dean, take my hand, please."

“Of course, I-” Dean fumbles through the thick mist. Shit, shit, when did the mist get so goddamned this dense? He can’t even see his own hand. His heart hammers in his chest, his veins alive with adrenaline that makes his hand shakes as it searches for Castiel’s.

(Dean,) Castiel cries, (where are you?)

(I’m right here,)

(Dean, I can’t find you,) unbridled terror fills the Link. Dean feels it settling in his stomach like a sharp coil and then a feeling as if he was being drained, pulled down and down.

(Cas!)

Another sob, another whimper, sounding suddenly so far away.

(Cas!)

He can’t see anything now, the mist obscuring his vision and he scrambles across the dirt, his hands grabbing at the place where he-

  
\- feels something warm and sticky, pulsating warmth moving under his fingers. He pulls his hand back and raises them to his eyes, sees them dark and red with blood.

(Cas!)

(Dean, help me, they are, they are going to take-)

There’s a painful throb aching across the Link, like a dark, twisting thing and it settles in his chest, makes itself comfortable.

(Cas!)

Makes itself at home.

“Cas!"

 

Dean opens his eyes, stares up at a white ceiling.

His heart his hammering painfully in his chest.The door flies open with a clang and suddenly there are hands all over him, carefully touching his stomach, his arms, brushing his wet hair away from his face.

“Dean, calm down.»

It’s Sam, his mind registers before Dean recognizes the anxious eyes of his brother peering at him through the gloom.

“It was just another dream,”Sam’s calloused hand brushes over his forehead, the movement soft and careful through practice.

“I….” Dean gasps for air, his vision finally solidifying.

Gone is the dark shapes in the woods, the cloying mist. Gone is the feeling of Castiel’s terror through the Link.

He recognizes Sam’s guest bedroom. The pale green walls, the gey duvet and the large, oak bed. From a window high on the wall, cold, spring light filters in through lace curtains. He closes his eyes for a moment, hears the quiet movement of Jesse downstairs, the soft tunes of the radio.

Sam lingers at the bedside for a moment, hesitant, studying Dean. Whatever he sees, makes him slowly lower himself until he’s sitting on the edge of the bed.

“Was it another bad one?”

Sam’s voice is careful, and Dean knows it’s because he’s dreading the answer.

“Yes,” is all Dean allows, twisting away until he’s no longer able to see Sam’s large, worried eyes.

“It’s been almost a year, now. The Healer said there might still be….echoes of the Bond in your mind, like…like phantom pain.»

Dean shuts his eyes. He doesn't tell Sam that the agony he’d felt had been real, that Castiel’s fear burns in his chest.

“Maybe you should reconsider the medicine that doctor-”

“No,” Dean growls.

“It might linger the pain from the seve-” Sam stops, catches himself treading into dangerous territory, steers himself safe “…from the Bond.»

Dean doesn't answer.

They’ve had this conversation many times before. He’ll take the pain from Castiel’s Bond, it’s the only thing he’s got left now that all of his scents are gone from their bed and Castiel’s clothes.

Sam sighs and Dean feels the bed dip as he rises, counts his five steps to the door.

“Victor is leaving today, remember? To move to the North Dakota Territory.»

“I remember,”Dean mutters.

“Just, we’re saying goodbye to him at the border in two hours if you’re-”

“I’m going to the woods."

Dean can feel Sam’s reluctance allow Dean stew and is grateful for his brother’s restraint, that he doesn't pick this fight either.

“Dinner is at seven,” is all he says, and then quietly closes the door.

Dean stares at the wall until the pain in his chest becomes a dismal, throbbing.

In a few minutes, he’ll rise, shower the nightmare off his body and head to the woods. He’ll follow Castiel’s old route, he’ll look for clues that aren't there, his wolf will seek a scent that’s drifted away months ago. He’ll wander, feeling hollow and drained, disconnected from his wolf and human mind.

Eventually, the pain in his head recedes. Outside he hears the chirp and twitter of birds.

It’s April and Castiel has been gone for seven months, four weeks, and three days.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, this is an unbetaed mess. Warnings: minorish- character death.

**Warning: minor character death.**

 

**Chapter seven.**

 

The first winter without Castiel is particularly cruel and nasty.

 

A cold front descends from the north, bringing with it terrible gales that make the houses shake and the trees curl in on themselves. After, ice creeps in over the Territory, carving frost patterns on windows and cars, freezing the water in the pipes.

 

Anna develops a rough cough that makes her shake and tremble with every gasp for breath. They coax her inside and she sleeps in Castiel’s old basket, her nose buried into the blankets. The Healer tells them to keep her warm and try and give her as much fluid as she’ll take, but there’s a look in her eyes that Dean doesn’t want to interpret.

 

The cold is so sharp and biting that Dean has to put a stop to his usual habit of following Castiel’s old routes. Instead, he spends the days inside, huddled in his bed or basket, pacing restlessly and staring at the frozen windows panes. Some days the pain from the Bond lessens to a dull, inconsistent ache that disappears entirely if Dean lets his mind wander in a book he’s reading or a movie he’s watching.

 

It always hits him later, a vicious strike to his mind that sends him to his knees, unable to breathe, uncertain as to whether he will ever be able to breathe again.

 

“You should stop punishing yourself,” Sam tells him when the shaking stops and he’s able to drag Dean back from whatever nightmare and darkness that’s gotten hold of him.

 

He touches Dean’s arm, gently, easing a glass of water into it.

 

“Castiel’s….” 

 

And what should they call it? Disappearance. Was he kidnapped? Did he leave of his own free will? Is he dead?

 

No. Never that last one, Dean won’t ever let them talk about Castiel in the past tense.

 

“He wouldn't want you to suffer,” Sam settles on, and Dean is always grateful that Sam never suggests that Castiel would want him to move on.

 

To get his life back together.

Find a new mate.

Have a litter of pups and be happy.

 

Even if it’s true.

 

 

When winter thaws and spring makes it first tentative caresses, Anna dies.

 

Dean wraps her in the blanket from Castiel’s basket, carries her into the woods. He buries her in the center of the Moon Caves because it’s Castiel’s favorite spot and he doesn’t know Anna’s. The caves are gap in the earth that’ll swallow a man standing, and they slope inwards in twists and turns until they open up to a domelike structure with a small, oculus, an open hole that lets the sun slant down to the floor and the moonlight touch the stones when it's in zenith.

 

Castiel once told him that places like these are where the Old Rites were held when the world was young and Shifters held to the ancient creeds that nobody really remembers.

 

Now, the place is a meeting place for young Shifters wanting to escape their parents’ supervision. There is a smashed champagne bottle on the ground along with glass shards that might have been from the champagne flutes. Dean cleans the area, careful to brush up all the broken pieces of glass.

 

It takes him hours to dig the grave, but he falls into the rhythm of it, the sound of the shovel against the hard soil, the clang of steel against stones.

 

When the sun sets, John, Sam, Jesse, Charlie, and Benny arrive and they stand there, silent and grim, as Dean lowers the body into the ground.

 

He climbs up, stares at the dark blue bundle at the bottom of the grave, the tufts of the tail sticking out at the end. Maybe he should go down and cover it? No. He doesn’t want to go back down into the hole now that it’s suddenly Anna’s grave.

 

He steals a glance at his pack.

 

Sam has an arm around Jess’ shaking shoulders, his face pale and eyes blank. Charlie is chewing nervously on her lower lip, shifting her weight from one foot to the other until Benny’s gentle nudge stops her fidgeting.

 

He wonders if he should say something, this is his mate’s sister, after all. What do you say about somebody at their funeral? Isn’t he meant to sum up her life in some way?

 

He didn’t really know her beyond the faint Link that brushed the edge of his continuousness whenever they were in close proximity. He knows that she was always cautious of him and preferred the open stretch of land at Sam and Jess’ farm to Castiel and his small house. She liked to join Castiel on his runs and to sit with him by the river. She kind and clever and she kicked Alistair’s butt.

 

These are things you’d say at a funeral, right?

 

But the words lodge in his throat.

 

John’s hand lands on the back of his neck squeezes once. His skin feels cold when the hand falls away.

 

“She was a fine wolf,” John says, “she’ll be missed, but not forgotten. We’ll send her name to the moon.”

 

There’s a fleeting murmur of consent, Charlie nods along to his words, her lips twisted in a fleeting smile.

 

John grabs a fistful of dirt, sprinkles it over the blue blanket. 

 

Suddenly Dean is hit by the realization that they’re not only burying Anna, but also Castiel's blanket. He loved that blanket because it was the first thing Dean gave to him when he came to their Territory. It covered their bed the first months after they were mated and always carried the unique scent of the two of them together. A few years later it migrated to Castiel’s basket. Now it’ll never be in Castiel’s basket again, and the last atoms of Castiel will be soiled by earth and dirt. For one terrifying heartbeat, it feels as though they’re actually burying Castiel. Dean clenches his fists close as if he can somehow contain the flood of the howl that’s threatening to spill past the lump in his throat.

 

One by one they pass him, sprinkling dirt over the remains until a light layer of earth is coating the blanket. Sam is the only one who remains, watching Dean, as he always seems to do, thoughtful, quiet, as if he’s waiting for Dean to lose his self-control and reembark on the binge of last year that cost him his job and forced him to move in with Sam and Jesse.  He should feel insulted by the scrutiny, but he doesn't fully trust himself, so he lets Sam watch.

 

Just in case.

 

Dean heaves a great, shuddering sigh and then grabs the shovel. He starts to fill the grave. After a few minutes of quiet digging, Sam joins him.

 

He marks it with a circle of white stones and plants yellow eveningstars and white angel’s trumpets.

 

When they are finished, Dean uses the shovel to scoop the shards from the champagne bottle and broken glasses into a plastic bag.

 

“In my days, kids used to come here and drink beer,” Sam comments carefully, gauging Dean’s mood.

 

“Yeah.”

 

Sam nods a little at the champagne label, faded hello and white by wind and weather.

 

“Seems odd to buy alcohol-free sparkles if you’re looking for a buzz.”

 

Dean peers at the label and frowns, “maybe it was just the novelty of drinking champagne.”

 

Sam shrugs and grabs the plastic bag out from Dean’s hand and the two shelves.

 

“I’ll dump it in the recycle bin on the way home.”

 

“Sure,” Dean stuffs his hands into his pockets. The forest is still bleak and barren, a waste of rock and fallen trees from the vicious winds of the winter.

 

“I think I’ll….” Dean points a thumb towards an open stretch of trees that will lead him down to the river.

 

“Just be home for dinner, would you?”

 

“Sure,” Dean promises, “I’m just going to clear my head, take-”

 

“-Castiel’s path, I know,” Sam twists his lips into a small smile.

 

“Have you thought about, I dunno, trying to contact his old pack?”

 

Dean grimaces and Sam hurries to add, “we’ve exhausted all out options in our Territory, we should expand the search. It couldn't hurt, right?”

 

Dean knows that Castiel would never return to a pack that exiled him. He’d be about as welcomed there as he would be in the human settlements.

 

“Yeah,” Dean agrees, “and maybe, you know, Charlie suggested that there might be corners of that internet thing that-”

 

Sam’s smiling in earnest now, “that internet thing,” he chuckles and Dean huffs in exasperation.

 

“Wolves don’t like all this…technology, it messes with our minds. Make us too human.”

 

“You sound like dad,” Sam winces and Dean rolls his eyes. He recognizes the path this conversation can easily take, the one where they stray into another argument of the pros and cons of technology, about the human and wolf mind. He steers the topic to safer territory.

 

“Anyway, Charlie said that it was like….having a million eyes and ears or something.”

 

“Sounds like it’s worth a shot.”

 

“Yeah,” Dean the bridge of his nose, feels the first throes of pain that heralds a nasty headache, “got nothing to lose.”

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am terribly sorry by the wait and the terrible quality of this chapter. I´ve been viciously busy and I am going off on holiday, but didn´t want to keep you guys hanging. 
> 
> You´ve been very supporting with my writing, so I hope you enjoy this chapter.

**Chapter eight.**

 

Charlie´s apartment sits above the only shop in the Territory that sells, as she puts it “technology from the 21st century.” The building is the only one with a satellite dish, making it stand out in sharp contrast to the rest of the buildings on main street. It is also the place where the Pack sometimes gather to indulge in the occasional movie night and mock everything Hollywood gets wrong about werewolves.

Many Shifters are distrustful of wireless technology. Some say it’s because the signals mess with their senses, others because it makes them too human. Because, the first thing a Shifter learns is to maintain the equilibrium between the human and the animal mind, too much of one and the balance is upset. It is why the Link is so important: it tethers the human mind while in animal form. Without that connection, the human mind would eventually surrender to the animal´s stronger, baser instincts and disappear. It would become impossible to shift back and the only thing remaining would be the wolf.

  
The real problem with technology, Dean thinks as he navigates Charlie’s narrow corridor, stacked high with old computers, laptops, and DVDs, is that it doesn't smell like it´s alive. A car hums with warmth and the mechanisms of valves and pistons and the cloying scent of fumes and emission of oils and grease. Dean grew up with this scent, it’s so much a part of him that it darkens his trail. It has even spilled onto Castiel’s scent, tinting his color dark and murky. Dean and Sam grew up with his Impala. On weekends, the entire family would go on road trips to the other edge of the Territory. Sam and Dean carved their name into it. Dean learned to drive it when he was fourteen, knew had to fix it by the time he was sixteen. He had his first kiss in it, slept off his hangovers and spent an entire day curled up in the backseat when he found one of Cas´s knitted scarfs with his scent still clinging to the threads.

Charlie is adamant that her computers are just as much as alive as Dean’s car, but sometimes Dean suspects that Charlie’s machines just occupy her mind, they aren´t alive with hundreds of memories.

“Because of this outdated belief that the internet is a bad and terrible place,” Charlie explains and uses the tip of her shoe to nudge a DVD out of her way, “it’s not easy to find other Shifters online, at least not Shifters who aren’t, you know, just pretending to be.”

“Why would they pretend to be something they are not?”

“Why wouldn't you?” Charlie shrugs, “the internet is freedom and anonymity with all the goods and bad that entails. In the old days, or as you call it, today, if you got your freak on for pink teacups, you’d sit at home, terrified of anybody knowing the deepest, darkest recesses of your mind. Nowadays you just go online and find fellow teacup lovers, and you no longer feel like such a freak.”

“And that’s a good thing.....” Dean ventures.

Charlie nods and pushes her red hair out of her eyes. She guides Dean down a narrow corridor to a room at the back of her home.

“Of course, one of the many bad things is that if your one of those pervs who prey on little children and-”

“Yeah,” Dean grimaces, “I get it. But what do Shifters do online?”

“Mostly, talk to other Shifters. Exchange thoughts and stories on different Territories, pack politics, finding mates and- well, there are sites who give advice to those who wants to live in the human territory. Where and how to get false identification, how to act to fit in, that sort of thing. Here we are-”

She pushes the door open and gestures Dean inside a room that is probably meant to be a closet. There are no windows and the entire space is occupied by a massive desk and a gigantic black chair. There are four monitors hanging on the wall over the desk, the surface of which is filled with keyboards, papers, pens and old cups of coffee. The room smells of stale air and old food. Dean wonders how anybody with a sensitive shifter nose can stand it.

“Welcome to my lair,” Charlie says, swinging easily into the chair. She touches the mousepad, bringing all four monitors alive and filling the dark room with pale, white, light.

Dean blinks away the sharp light and stares at the screens. “How is that going to help us look for Castiel?”

“I’m getting to that.”

Charlie cracks her fingers, one by one as if she’s preparing to play the piano. Her hands curls over the keyboard and the screen starts to flash with pictures humans, wolves, shifters.

“These are all the Shifters who have gone missing in the past two years, Castiel not included. Thirty-two names.”

Charlie does something complex and the images suddenly line up in a neat, orderly row on the screens. The human form, next to wolf form. Everyday pictures of people smiling to the camera, wolves basking in the sun, families and couples. It’s a mix of old, young, men, women, even two children, from all over the country.

“That sounds like a lot,” Dean hedges.

Charlie nods, “five years back the number was only eight or twelve. So if we are holding that as the norm, the amount has almost doubled in the past couple of years. Now, a few disappearances are within the normal range. Exiles who are banished and just vanishes, a few who loses their Link and wander, accidents that happens when one is traveling from one Territory to the other.”

“I see,” Dean murmurs and tries not to think about his mother, shoves the memory down somewhere deep and dark. He needs to focus on Cas.

“But Shifters are seldom reported missing,” Charlie continues, “because there’s no cross-Territory authority and the cooperation between sheriffs in different Territories are almost none existent and resources to conduct searches are scant.”

Deputy Sheriff Mills had used the same excuse when they abandoned the search for Castiel three weeks after he went missing. They’d exhausted their resources in the Territory and the neighboring Territories were growing impatient with Dean poking along their borders. It was kindly suggested that Dean should accept the fact that Cas was gone and move on. Dean’s reaction to that speech had earned him a night in a cell.

“So, who reported these people missing?” Dean nods to the images.

“Friends and family, people who care more about knowing what happened to their loved one than Territory politics.

Now, if we eliminate those who were exiled, those who were suspected of wandering or who disappeared during a Gathering…. We’re still left with,” Charlie’s fingers runs across the keyboard, “fifteen disappearances within the last two years, sixteen, if we count Castiel.”

Dean studies the faces remaining on Charlie’s screen. They are all about Dean’s age, caught on camera in an unguarded moment that makes them seem a lot younger.

“Notice anything about these people?” Charlie says, stealing a glance at Dean over her shoulder.

“Well, they are all young, legal adults,” Dean says.

“Yes,” Charlie agrees, “people are less likely to invest a lot of effort into searching for an adult. A child would garner a lot of attention, especially since…. You know.”

Dean’s mind supplies Charlie’s unspoken words. Children are rare and precious, if one disappeared from the Territory, the pack wouldn't rest until it was found.

“Also, look at their Shifts,” Charlie says with an odd edge to her voice.

Dean stares, but he’s not sure what he’s meant to be seeing beyond young, adult, shifters. After a moment of hopeless silence, Charlie intervenes.

“They have rare coats.”

“Three Mexican Gray wolves, those are nearly extinct and four Red wolves. There are like only a hundred of those alive. Two albino wolves, and the rest of them-”

“Omegas,” Dean realizes.

Charlie nods, “now, omegas have a higher risk of- well…” she averts her gaze, stares at the computer screens, “packs, you know, steal them from other packs. It’s one of those….traditions that the sheriffs tend to look between the fingers at. But even so, when I look at these missing Shifters. I can only think-”

“-Collectors,” Dean finishes.

Charlie nods, her expression tight and dark.

Dean’s throat goes tight and it’s suddenly hard to breathe. The room is too small, the walls creaking and leaning towards him and he shuts his eyes so hard he sees stars. He feels the wolf, pacing like a caged animal, pawing at the edges of his mind. He need stop get out, needs fresh air and clear skies, he needs the wind and the moon. He needs his mate back.

He doesn't remember how he makes his way out of the confinement of Charlie’s office, but suddenly he’s standing in the barren streets outside, gasping for air like a drowning man fighting the pull of the tide.

“Are you alright, Dean?”

Dean finds Charlie’s worried eyes standing a few feet away, careful of encroaching on his personal space. The wolf still prowls at the edges of his consciousness, and Dean can almost feel its anger at Dean for allowing their mate to fall into the hands of Collectors.

“Yeah,” he Dean says, voice ragged and raw, “just-” he presses his lips together, inhales through his nose, gathers his scattering wits.

“Look, we don’t know that Castiel’s been taken by Collectors,” Charlie says, “there’s still-”

“What?” Dean demands. He doesn't want to hear another placating speech on how Dean needs to calm down. He’s been calm for over a goddamned year now, and what has that gotten him? Nothing.

Anger curls along his spine, making his stomach roll. He should have known that Cas had been taken, he should have done everything he could to track him down and not let himself be talked into staying within the Territory and….and hope for the best.

Charlie raises her hands defensively, takes another step back, “Dean, your canines are showing, are you certain you’re alright?”

Shit. Dean lifts a hand to his lips and feels the sharp jab of his canine teeth against the palm of his hands. He hasn’t lost control of his shift since he was a pup.

“Yeah,” he gasps, shaking his head, “sorry.”

Charlie gives him a nervous smile, “good. Thought you were about to go all Big Bad Wolf on me.”

“No, I’m good,” Dean answers, but Charlie’s eyes are still wide and worried, so Dean smiles, pulling back the corners of his mouth, “see, no teeth.”

“Great,” Charlie’s smile is genuine now, her shoulders slumping and she closes the distance between them, patting Dean’s arm.

“I’ve something more to show you if you’re up for it.”

“Yeah, sure.”

Charlie wraps her arm in the crook of Dean’s elbow and together they walk back towards her apartment.

“Maybe you don’t need to tell my dad about….”

“Your little freak-out?” Charlie squeezes his arm, “don’t worry, Dean, you’re allowed the occasional freakout.”

 

Back in Charlie’s office, Dean sees that the pictures on the monitors have been replaced with boxes of texts in something Charlie tells him is a discussion forum.

“People are sharing everything they know about the disappearance of their family member. Odd things that might have happened in the days prior to their disappearance. So I set up a search for words that are repeated and I think I figured something out.”

“Yeah?”

Charlie nods, “see, four of the accounts describes seeing a brunette in a large car a few days before the disappearance. Now, people do travel through Territories, but-”

“What kind of car?”

“Oh, well, they can’t seem to agree on it. Large and gray, some say it was white, some says it was a van, a few suggests it could have been a Honda Pilot.”

Dean grabs hold of the back of Charlie’s chair, anchors himself to the spot. His throat burns and the feeling of something heavy and solid suddenly settles itself in his stomach.

“She was there,” Dean croaks, his knuckles turning white. Charlie twists in her chair “what?”

“The day Cas disappears,” Dean swallows around a lump in his throat, fearing it might be his heart.

“I was working on this damned Honda Pilot, 2014 model. The woman…the brunette, I can still remember how uncomfortable she was, the stench of her perfume, something sharp and fruity. She was anxious, kept looking at her watch, asking me to hurry the hell up, paid me double to rush the job.”

“Are you…are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure,” Dean barks, “everything about that goddamned day is seared into my memory.”

“Shit,” Charlie turns her attention back to the screen.

“Do you remember her name?”

“Said her name was Jane Smith,” Dean laughs, a hollow, rusty thing, “but….but the car’s registration number should be in Bobby’s books. We can get somewhere with that, right?”

“Yeah,” Charlie grins, “we sure can.”

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all your kind words of support. Here is an unbeated chapter, I hope you enjoy and will share your thoughts and ideas with me.

**Warning: things are about to get dark and angsty.**

 

**Chapter nine.**

 

Dean paces the length of Charlie’s kitchen, every motion agitated, angry. The wolf prowls his mind, back and forth at the edge of his consciousness, as if it’s seeking a weak spot.

 

Charlie watches him with a carefully neutral expression, it hasn’t been an hour yet since Dean almost let the wolf take control. Pups might be forgiven for such a transgression because they cannot fully control their emotions. It’s entirely different for an adult, if you can’t control your rage and maintain the balance between your human and wolf side, you’re a danger to the community. You´ll be dealt with.

 

“He’s taking too long,” Dean growls. The stench of his tension curls off his shoulders in thick, cloying fumes of alpha pheromones that send goosebumps skittering across her skin.

 

“Dean, you need to relax. Bobby is working as fast as he can.” Charlie wraps her fingers around her steaming cup of tea, the warmth soothing some of the tension in her joints, “have a cup of tea, it’ll calm you.”

 

Dean snorts and folds his arms over his chest, “maybe I should go over there and help him look.”

 

“He’ll call at any moment, just sit down and wait.”

 

Dean drags a hand over his head, before knotting his fist in his hair, “I can’t just do nothing!” Dean snarls, “shit, I should have known something was off about that woman, nobody wears that much perfume.”

 

He moves to the far end of the kitchen, curls his hands into fists to anchor his anger before he unleashes it on Charlie’s kitchen walls. He closes his eyes, presses them shut so tightly he sees stars, only to be beset by memories of Cas. But not the small, strong, nerdy guy he’d built a home and a life with. These images are the Cas from his nightmares, frightened and in pain, calling for Dean.

_(Dean, help me, they are, they are taking-)_

 

He takes a deep breath, presses the air into his lungs and slowly lets it seep through his lips. He can feel his pulse boiling under his skin, hear the sound of his own blood roaring in his head. The animal stalks him, it wants the Bond to his mate, even if it’s just a terrified echo of it. When Dean opens his eyes, he sees tendrils of colors curling through the air of Charlie’s kitchen.

  

Charlie might cover a small slip up, but she’ll be obligated to tell his father if he loses control again.

 

“Dean, are you alright?”

 

“Yeah,” Dean croaks, wiping a hand across his face. His visions blurs and then settles back to the dull, human perception.

 

“I’m fine, just…thinking.”

 

“Well,” Charlie tightens her grip on the cup, “why don’t you tell me everything you remember about her and the car, it might help us locate her quicker once we have the registration number.”

 

Dean isn’t fully convinced and deep down he recognizes Charlie’s attempt at keeping him calm, keeping him from letting the wolf take control of his wits. Christ, he doesn’t know how he’d handle this without her.

 

“Alright,” Dean sighs and slides a chair out from the table and takes a seat.

 

“She had a gray car, 2014 Honda Pilot. It was pretty sleek and well looked after, I kinda figured it was, y’know, one of those cars only used for picking up the kids from school, doing errands and things like that. She’d come to the shop because her check engine light was showing and there was some minor fault with the transmission. Nothing immediate dangerous, but she wouldn’t have gotten far if….”

 

Dean grips the edge of the table to keep still as his mind churns through the implications. If he hadn’t fixed the car, she wouldn’t have been able to drive far before she got a serious problem. They would have found her on their first search of the Territory. His mind is a whirlwind of emotions. Hells, they might even have found Cas. She might not even have managed to take him, she might…

 

_(Dean,) Castiel cries, (where are you?)_

 

“Dean,” Charlie says softly, placing her hand over his, “take a deep breath. You’re still letting the wolf come too close, you need to find your balance.”

 

“Yeah,” Dean rasps, his knuckles whitening and the table creaking under the pressure of his grip, “yeah, I’ll…it’s just…”

 

“What did she look like?”

 

“Short blonde hair, y’know, cut to her shoulders. Black jeans, very….shapely,” Dean shakes his head, “she was sensibly dressed for the road. Decent shoes, jeans, jacket. Her perfume though, awful and fruity, like canned peach and pineapple. Pretty sure she’d emptied an entire bottle of it, I figured she was trying to wash the stench of Shifters off her.”

 

“What about the car?” Charlie beckons, “was it dirty?”

 

“Yeah,” Dean stares at his hands, smooths his fingers against the grain of the wood, “dirt and grime on the wheels and around the skirt of the car. Looks like she’d come a long way.”

 

“But the woman, this Jane Smith, she wasn’t dirty? Her shoes, the hem of her pants?”

 

Dean gives Charlie an odd look, wondering when she had turned into Nancy Drew. Charlie catches his gaze and shrugs, “if her car is dirty and she isn’t, she’s either not left the car since she left her home or she was carrying a change of clothes.”

 

“Why does that matter?”

 

“It’s probably nothing,” Charlie concedes, “but if we assume that she’s involved in Castiel’s disappearance, if she’s working for Collectors, she wouldn’t have been able to…” Charlie trails off, not sure how to finish the sentence. Kidnap him? Kill him? “…I mean, she’d not have been able to get out the car without getting dirty. Maybe her perfume was covering something else….”

 

Charlie is saved from Dean’s reaction by the chime of the phone. Dean barrels out of his chair and leaps at the receiver, clutching as though it was the lifeline of a drowning man.

 

“Bobby, did you…” Dean falls silent and Charlie picks up the gruff sound of Bobby’s voice telling Dean to hold his horses and let him speak.

 

Dean nods a few times and then grabs a pen and scribbles something down on his arm. After only a few minutes, he lowers the receiver again.

 

“Bobby found the car registration number in the logs, he thinks it might possibly be a fake, but for once his paranoia might work in our favor because he wrote down the chassis number as well.”

 

“What’s that?”

 

“Well, you can just grab a set of plates and fix them to the car, but the chassis number is a unique code, a serial number used by the motor industry to identify motor vehicles. It’ll give us more information on the car than the plates.”

 

“Oh!” Charlie clasps her hands together, “that’s great news.”

 

Dean transfers the numbers from his arm to a piece of paper before handing it to Charlie.

 

“Great, I’ll start working on this right away, it might take a couple of hours, depending how deep I need to dig to get an address.”

 

“Alright,” Dean exhales, “I’ll wait.”

 

Charlie bites her lower lip, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, “maybe you should go for a run or something, go and give Sam and your father an update.”

 

“I’ll wait-”

 

“Dean, I can’t work with you hanging over my shoulder, please just- I’ll find you as soon as I have something.”

 

Dean recognizes the fear in her hunched set of her shoulders and he ducks his head to keep a straight face. She doesn’t want to be held responsible for having to report Dean if he happens to lose his shit again.

 

“Sure, Charlie. I’ll go and talk to Sam,” he forces a thin smile and her relief is palpable, even to his human nose.

 

“Thanks,” she places a hand on his arm, squeezes once and then she disappears down the corridor to her office.

 

 

He doesn’t go more than a few paces from Charlie’s house to an old playground. It’s thankfully empty at this hour. Dean still remembers coming here to play with Sammy when they were kids, and later, watching Sammy swing on the monkey bars when Dean thought himself too old to play with kids. The playground has mostly surrendered to tall grass and weeds that over the years have regained the territory. There're few kids these days. Dean’s heard the muttering of infertility and low birth-rates. Shifter pregnancies are difficult at best because suddenly it’s hormones and pheromones who are dictating the status quo between the human and the wolf.

 

Dean lowers himself onto an old bench, the metal cold, hard and unpleasant. He knots his fingers together to still his jittery nerves, rests his hands in his lap, tries to keep his mind from wandering towards all the things he knows about Collectors.

 

But like it always does when he tries to avoid something, his mind strays right towards it.

 

When Sam and he were kids, on this very playground, the older kids used to tease them, “behave or the Collectors will get you.” “Be a good boy and fetch, or I’ll sell you to the Collectors.” They’d even play childish games of hide and seek, of Hunters and Collectors and Sam would wake up terrified that they’d be hiding under his bed or lurking in his closet.

 

Unlike the boogieman, the Collectors were quite real, even if most human law enforcers tended to disperse of the accusations of heresy and rumors. Collectors collected rare specimens, endangered and exotic animals and beasts and there none so elusive as a rare shift. Christ, there were entire subgroups of Collectors devoted to eating all the different beasts on the planet. The most common practice among Collectors  was to mount the heads of their capture on walls or had a taxidermist fix  them to a ridiculous display. The rarest group kept their game alive in pens, zoos, and menageries. And even if the thought of Cas locked up in a cage made something ugly twist and turn in his stomach, even if that is the most preferable thought.

 

Dean covers his face with his hands, tries to close his mind to the images of Cas’s head on a wall. The wolf is seething with anger, a dark, snarling beast that begs at Dean to find the people who hurt his mate and rip them to pieces. The desire gnaws at him, and Dean has to grip the metal to keep himself still. He feels the Bond quivering, a meek, and starved link that Dean knows is slowly rotting away.

 

_(Dean, don’t leave me,) Castiel’s voice crawls through their Bond._

 

“Hey, Dean!”

 

There’s a hand on his shoulder and Dean fights a brief and losing war to cling to the memory of Cas. He surges awake with a gasp, staring at Charlie’s worried face.

 

“Hey, did you get Sam and your father? I think I got something.”

 

 

 

Almost an hour later the four of them are pressed around Charlie’s kitchen table. Sam tries to stifle his yawn behind his hands while Dean worries that John’s been nursing a glass of whiskey because the tint of alcohol is evident on his breath and his glassy glare.

 

“So, I first ran the license plates from the Honda, and no surprise, it comes up listed as stolen from another car a few years ago. My guess is that she regularly uses different plates.”

 

“Not an uncommon practice amongst Hunters and Collectors,” John grunts.

 

“Which is why I ran the chassis number. It gave me the factory that made the car and from there I was able to trace it on its journey to the car dealership and the person who bought it. Who was not Jane Smith, or even a woman.”

Charlie tucks an errant lock of stray hair behind her ear before she continues, “the car is registered to a business venture, to a chain of small roadhouses around America. There’s one a couple of hours outside of our Territory, I suggest we scope it out.”

 

“What’s the name of the chain and who owns it?” Sam asks.

 

“It’s called Crossroad Houses and they advertise cabins and accommodations suitable for hunting parties, hikers, that sort of thing. The business is owned by an F. Crowley.”

 

John frowns and runs a finger over the top of his lip, the same tell he uses when he’s been dealt a hand of bad cards.

 

“I know those places,” John murmurs, “they are very pro-human. They won’t let a shifter go near the place, they have silver in all the door and window frames. It’s only sterling silver, but it’s enough to keep us from entering. And even if we got past-” John continues, interrupting Dean’s protests before he’s even managed to voice them, “most of those places have moon rocks and you know how deadly those are.”

 

“Shit,” Charlie curses, “I hadn’t realized. Makes the place seem really suspicious though. I mean, why else would they go to all that trouble to keep Shifters out.”

 

“It’s probably where Collectors go to find hunters for their contracts,” John grouses, “fairly easy for a human to get in, but it’s a fortress against werewolves.”

 

“Fine,” Dean slams his fist into the table, “we’ll just wait outside and see until that chick reappears and then we’ll grab her as she’s going to her car.”

 

Charlie shakes her head, “we might be in for a long wait, the car and the woman has been spotted all over America, Dean, she might be moving from Crossroad to Crossroad, shit, it could be years before she’s back in our neighborhood.”

 

“Then we’ll just find this F. Crowley and-”

 

“I’ve been looking for him,” Charlie confesses, “and beyond his name on property leases and tax forms, there’s nothing else on him. Not a picture, address or anything. That name might  not even be real.”

 

“Are you saying we’re just going to do nothing,” Dean growls, suddenly aware that his teeth are showing. John grabs his arm and yanks him down into his seat. He doesn’t quite say “heel,” but it’s a near thing.

 

“Let me go, dad,” Dean snarls, trying to yanks his hand free only to feel John’s grip tightening.

 

“You need to calm the hells down, son.”

 

Charlie presses her lips together to a thin line, shuffling her chair a few inches away.

 

“I’m going to find Cas-” Dean growls. The wolf howls, a storm of static noise in his mind and he feels it close, sniffing at his senses, stalking closer to his mind, feels the tension of its muscles feels-

 

“Dean, you get a hold of yourself right now, son,” John’s voice is low and tight, his fingers digging into Dean’s wrist.

 

“Just a suggestion,” Sam says carefully, “but what if, I don’t know, somebody human were to go to one of those places, maybe pretending to be a Collector, hoping to get in touch with a hunter or something?”

 

One pair of canine eyes turn to stare at him.

 

“What?” Sam shrugs, “you gotta admit that it’s a decent plan.”

 

“Those places are too goddamned dangerous,” John says, his hand still on Dean’s wrist.

 

“It’s not as dangerous for humans-”

 

“No, Sammy,” Dean says, quelling the words he really wants to say, “you got Jess to think about.”

 

“You are my brother, Dean,” Sam says, “I hate seeing you  suffer, and besides, Cas is my friend, he’s my family too. This is our best option and finding out what happened to him. You know I’m right.”

 

Of course, Sam is right.

 

“I can’t- I can’t lose you too,” Dean croaks.

 

“You won’t. I can take care of myself, Dean. You and dad taught me how. I can do this,” Sam’s eyes flits from Dean to their dad, in the end, he’ll need the Alpha’s permission.

 

“Alright,” John agrees flatly, finally letting go of Dean’s hand. “But we’re making a proper plan, none of your usual harebrained, act-first-nonsenses.”

 

Sam nods.

 

“Good,” Charlie laughs nervously, “let's get crackin’”

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks for your wonderful support, it is what keeps me writing.
> 
> As always, this chapter is unbetaed.
> 
> P.S everything I know about the US and it´s states, I learned on google. So things might be a bit shifty. 
> 
> Please not that from now on, the chapters are going to get fairly dark and that the tags will change.

**Chapter ten.**

 

 

Three days later, they meet up again around Sam and Jess’ kitchen table.

 

Jess and Sam’s place is a large colonial structure with five bedrooms and a massive dining room. Sam forced Dean to move in with them after he found Dean unconscious in a puddle of his own vomit on Cas and his Bonding anniversary. It was four days after Dean lost his job and it was four days that still remains a black hole in Dean’s memory.

 

He likes their house; it’s large enough to give you your own space, to hide away when the outside world gets a little bit too raw and stark. But it has a cozy library with an open fireplace and thick carpets and the kitchen is small, painted white with trims of pastel green tiles and hardwood floor. It isn’t cluttered, but full of life and character that three generations of Moors have left in the house. When Dean first moved in, every cell in his body had rebelled at the loss of Cas’s scent and the familiarity that was the home the two of them had built together.

 

But their house wasn’t a home anymore, it's just an empty shell that contains all of Dean’s loneliness and frustration.

 

Charlie had secluded herself in her office, refusing to speak to any of them until the official meeting. It’s been the longest few days in Dean’s life since Cas vanishes and he spent them pacing the length of the farm while his wolf prowled his mind.

 

No matter how much he tried to distract himself, he was beset with various scenarios where he hadn’t fixed that goddamned car that enabled the hunter to capture Cas.

 

Sometimes the car would veer right into a ditch or get hit by a truck.

 

One time, the worst of them, he thought he could hear Cas’s distant voice calling for him. He’d come to the sound of crunching glass under his boots and he found himself standing the Moon Caves with no real memory how he go there or why the place called to him.

 

Even if the days were bad, the nights were terrifying.

 

 It was as if this new knowledge of what might have happened to Cas had reignited their dwindling Bond and now Dean felt it coil in his mind, scraping its claws across his memories of Cas curled against him, the feel of his breath against his skin, his long, thin, fingers slotting against Dean’s.

 

Dean is lost in these thoughts until Sam places a bottle of beer in front of him, squeezing his shoulder before he finds his seat. Dean wraps his fingers around the chilled bottle and lets the cold seep into his fingers, anchoring him to reality.

 

“So, I’ve been doing some digging into Crossroad Houses,” Charlie starts, sliding a sheet across the table to each of them. It’s a map of America with all a rough outline of all fifty states, with areas of blue in various sizes marking the Territories.

 

The biggest Territory crosses four borders, encompassing the corners of Arizona, Utah, slanting into Colorado and trickling down to New Mexico. There are other large Territories in Utah, North and South Dakota, but the largest concentration is in the north, in Montana, Oregon, and Minnesota. The Winchester’s Territory in Kansas might be the largest one in the state, but it’s just a tiny speck on the map compared to some of the other Territories.

 

“Alright, as you can see, I’ve marked the locations of Crossroad Houses. Surprise, surprise, they are all located near the largest Territories. There’s five of them in North and South Dakota alone.”

 

“And nobody thinks that’s suspicious?” Sam asks.

 

Charlie shrugs, “these are also states famed for wildlife, nature reserves, hiking, fishing, so I’m even guessing that some of their business might actually be legitimate. You can’t run a business this size based on illegal hunting only, no matter how much some sickos are willing to pay for the experience of hunting a Shifter.”

 

Charlie’s fingers run over the keyboard on the slim machine she’s brought and then turns it around so the rest of them can study the page. It’s a picture of a small, log cabin with an outdoor fireplace, and a hot tub. The insides are bare with wood paneling, a colorful rug on the floor, bunk beds and aquarelles of animals on the walls. There’s a tiny kitchenette complete with a fridge and a flat-screen TV. Dean can’t help but admit that it looks cozy.

 

“There’s sterling silver in all the door and window frames on all the cabins. They advertise it as family friendly and Shifter safe,” Charlie spits the last word and it looks like it takes all of her effort to rein in the size of her anger.

 

“Do people really still believe that Shifters are dangerous?” Jess asks, sliding her hand under Sam’s.

 

“People are always going to fear what they don’t or won’t understand,” Sam murmurs, patting his wife’s hand, “and the governments aren’t going out of their way to try and improve relations. To them, we’ll always be the interlopers, even we got the oldest ties to the land.”

 

“The closest Crossroad is located in Bennett County, South Dakota. It’s a pretty small place, with a population over just a couple of thousands. It seems like a pretty standard small-town-America, but parts of the Wild Life Refuge is open to visitors and one of their primary sources of income is tourism of which Crossroad Houses is the largest business.”

 

“You think this is where Jane Smith is operating from?” Dean asks, trying to hide the tremor in his voice. South Dakota was just around seven hours away with a car. The thought makes the pit of his stomach begin a steady descent.

 

All this time and Cas might just have been hours away.

 

“It’s the business where the car is registered to,” Charlie says, “and it’s only a couple of hours away, so it seems to be our best lead.”

 

“Sam can’t just waltz over and start inquiring about their Shifter hunting business,” John states, “and I’m guessing that fancy box of yours can’t find anything about it either.” He makes a dismissive wave at Charlie’s laptop and the redhead bristles as if she’s offended on its behalf.

 

Then her lips curl in a knowing smile.

 

“I’ve thought about that,” Charlie drags her laptop back across the table.

 

“Now,” Charlie pauses, closes her eyes for a moment and when she speaks it’s with a strained voice, “according to the rumors on the internet, Shifter pelts will fetch tens of thousands, even hundreds of thousands depending on size, coloring and the quality of the coats.”

 

Across the table, Jess goes a little pale and Dean sees Sam squeezing her hand reassuringly.

 

Dean feels his heart lurch in his chest and he feels like he could fall into it, this darkness he’s been carrying ever since Cas disappeared- no since he was taken from him. He can feel the wolf’s rage swelling under his skin. He grabs the edge of the table, tries to force away the image of Cas, dangling by his legs, his limbs listless, blood curling his fur as a knife is dragged along his skin, severing his fur from sinews and muscles and-

 

-and he knows that if Cas has been harmed in any way, there will be no stopping the wolf, there will be no levee to contain his wrath.

 

“Dean,” John’s stern voice calls and Dean shakes away the image, searches for their fragile Bond, wraps his mind around it, shelters it from the dark thoughts. The Healer told him that it’s just a residual pain, a phantom, an echo of a memory.

 

Now….

 

Now it could mean that Cas is alive, that the Bond isn’t broken because it’s keeping Cas tethered to him, that during all these months, for almost eighteen months, Cas has been trying to reach him. And Dean hasn’t been answering, he’s been slinking around the Territory, stewing in his own filth and sorrow, drinking  away their meager savings, losing his job. Almost losing their house.

 

He’s never going to forgive himself for not trusting his instincts more, for making them convince him that he needed to take goddamned pills to dull the ache of it.

 

“Dean,” John’s voice drifts across his thoughts. Dean shakes his head, banishes the thoughts. He wipes a hand across his face and comes awake to three worried and one stern face staring at him.

 

“Yeah,” he rasps, “yeah, sorry, I’m good.”

 

Charlie offers him a loose smile and Dean does his best to mirror it.He needs to focus on the task at hand.

 

“Now, even if Cas is attractive for anyone who’s looking for a Shifter pelt, he’s far more valuable alive because he’s an Omega. It makes him rare. If they were just after him for his pelt, well, then why not just kill him just across the border?”

 

“That’ll be pretty risking,” Jess says, “we’d hear about it if a Shifter was found killed, even if it was outside the Territory.”

 

“Sure,” Charlie agrees, her voice laced with bitterness “but we know how much effort the human authorities would put into locating his killer.”

 

“What you are saying,” Sam says with a worried glance at Dean who’s holding onto the bottle for dear life. Shit. They really need to end the discussion on the pros and cons of where Cas might have been killed. “Is that we need to figure out who is in the market for a live Omega.”

 

“Somebody wealthy,” John adds, “somebody with the means to keep him.”

 

“Right,” Charlie frowns, “and that means that nobody will take Sam seriously if he just trots up at Crossroad Houses and starts to ask questions on who might know who might be keeping an Omega shifter.”

 

Sam frowns, but Jess quickly interjects, “you mean, he needs a good cover.”

 

“Exactly. We’ll need to come up with some backstory, maybe some wealthy daddy’s boy or something, somebody looking to get in with the cool kids by getting his hands on an illegal, exotic, animal.”

 

“You’ll need to get acquainted with the crowd,” John muses, “they aren’t going include a stranger in their highly illegal business.”

 

“Sam will need a fake identity and money to throw around.”

 

“Fake credit cards,” Dean says with a shrug, “we’ve used those before.”

 

“This sounds like it could be dangerous,” Jess murmurs, ducking her head away to hide her expression. Sam lets go of her hand, only to move it to her shoulder, gripping her tightly.

 

“You don’t need to worry, hon’,” he says, his smile never faltering, “I’m not just a farm boy.”

 

Jess  smile is a watery thing, but she grabs hold of Sam’s hand, her knuckles whitening.

 

“I know, and Cas is our family, I want him back. I just…these people don’t have any scruples, they won’t play by any rules we know.”

 

Of course it will be dangerous, Dean thinks, there’s nothing more dangerous to a Shifter than a Hunter or a Collector. Even if Sam is fully human, that won’t save him from their rage if they figure out what he’s really after.

 

Dean lowers his eyes, pretends to study the map.

 

He’d protested Sam’s involvement before and he wants to offer Sam the out again. Sam’s his little brother after all, and while he doesn’t doubt that he can take care of himself, Dean won’t be able to recover if he’s lost too.

 

And Jess…

 

Sam is her husband, the future father of her children.

 

“I’m going with him,not-” Dean raises his hands to quell the wave of protests that rises from the table, “not to the Crossroad, but I’m going with him to South Dakota, I’ll stay in some motel nearby.”

 

“Dean,” Sam’s eyes sweeps the table before he finds the rest of his sentence in John’s frown.

 

“You’re not allowed to leave the Territory without applying for dispensation or a travel pass and that will take time and-”

 

“I’m not going to ask for permission,” Dean growls, his eyes flitting to his Alpha’s and Dean knows that no matter what he finds there, he isn’t going to let Sam leave on his own. He can’t let him face these dangerous people without backup. He can’t spend days, prowling his house without going crazy.

 

“Sam needs somebody who could cover his back if things get hairy, or if he….if he finds Cas, I need to be there.”

 

His breath sticks in his throat. He doesn’t give voice to the dark thoughts that’s lurking in the depths of his mind, hounding the wolf. That he needs to be there to rip to shreds anybody who hurt him.

 

“Alright,” John says his aggravation at Dean’s minor rebellion mirrored by the sharp, angry slant of his eyebrows.

 

“But if anything happens to you out there, Dean,” John narrows his eyes,  “You’ll leave your collar here. You’ll be on your own. We’ve got a shaky relation with the humans and we’re on too thin ice to take on any trouble from the authorities, especially if you get into trouble with Crossroad Houses.”

 

“Fine,” Dean jams his arms under each other and averts his eyes. He doesn’t think the Alpha will permit another display of obstinance and Dean has no desire to test his father’s strength in a fight.

 

There’s a sudden crack in the hardness of John’s eyes, “I want Cas back, son, he’s family. But I need to consider the rest of the pack as well.”

 

“I know, dad.”

 

“So,” Sam says with a shaky laugh, “I need to pass for somebody who’s filthy rich?”

 

“I hope that means getting a hair cut,” Dean mutters.

 

“Jerk.”

 

“Bitch.”

 

“Alright,” Charlie intercedes, “we still got some work to do in figuring out Sam’s story, maybe we should contact the Dakota Territory and see if there’s anybody there who has any information.”

 

“Maybe we can reach Victor,” Dean says, “or maybe somebody else in that Territory has seen the car or know something about Collectors or Hunters operating in their state.”

 

“It might take a couple of days, but I should be able to have some fake IDs for you two,” Charlie says, waving away their wide-eyed looks of wonder, “I know a guy, alright, let’s just leave it at that.”

 

“Bobby and I know a fellow named Rufus who lives on the Territory border. He’s not the most charming fellow, an exile, but if anybody knows anything about Collectors or Hunters, it’ll be him.”

 

“Great. How soon until we can be on our way?”

 

Charlie’s fingers skim across the keyboard. She nods to herself a couple of times, “by the end of the week.”

 

Dean closes his eyes against the sensation of his heart hammering against his ribs and he’s certain his pulse is leaping. He feels the Bond in his mind, humming faintly, and for the first time in a long time, Dean wraps his Link around it and sends with all his heart.

 

(I am coming, Cas.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They find the car.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, this is unbeated. 
> 
> Thank you for all your kudos and comments. Please don´t hesitate to share your thoughts and ideas with me.
> 
> Also, let me repeat the warning that this story will get dark and angsty. I will add additional tags, but please read the warning in all chapters.

**Warning for possible triggers:** Anxiety attack and graphic description of threats of violence.

 

 

**Chapter eleven.**

 

Sam glances at his brother from the corner of his eye.  They left the border of the Territory about an hour ago, officially making Dean a trespasser and legal kill on sight, if anyone figures out that he's a werewolf.

 

When Sam was younger he had always thought life was unfair for making him the first human in a long, proud, line of werewolves.

 

When the pack went howling and running under the full moon, Sam would stay tucked in his room, hiding his jealousy behind the cover of a thick book, pretending that he too felt an itch under his skin.

 

His parents and his brother always did their best to make him feel like he wasn't any different. They talked to him about Shifter biology, physiology, about the Link, Bonding, mates, heats, and ruts. They tried to explain what it is was like to see scents in colors, to feel the thrum of the wolf just under their skin.

 

One day, when Dean was about sixteen and Sam had just turned twelve, their dad had gathered them in his office and ushered them into the two wingback chairs, an old bonding gift from Mary's parents.

 

“There’s stuff you gotta know now that you’re getting older,” John told them and tucked his arms under his armpits, staring down at his sons.

 

Dean had squirmed deeper into the chair, his eyes darting to the floor. The human equivalent of ears back and down. Sam had gotten a sharp elbow in his side when he’d been remiss in showing his submission. It hadn’t been the first time and there would be plenty of lessons before Sam learned to act like a wolf, even if he didn’t carry one in his mind.

 

“Now, boys,” John had walked around his massive oak desk as if he was going to use it as a fort between himself and his sons.

 

“There’ll come a time when you’re ready to take a mate-”

 

“Sheesh, dad,” Dean muttered, ducking his head to hide his expression, “I think we’re a long way from-”

 

“Don’t think I haven’t seen you chasing tail, Dean,” John pressed his lips to a thin line and watched his oldest son squirm in his seat, “you may think that a little nuzzling and nibbling is perfectly innocent, but you’re an alpha and what’s more, you’re my son, you’re not going to be entering into any casual flings. Your wolf doesn’t think like that.”

 

Dean’s face had turned an interesting shade of red and suddenly he'd taken a keen interest in the state of his nails. Sam suppressed a snigger, Dean's interest in the beta females were a well-known and well-founded rumor and Sam wondered if their dad was preparing this Talk because he'd found Dean making out with the girl next door.

 

Slowly, Sam had raised his hand and been rewarded with a  sharp glare from his dad. Any chance to embarrass his older brother.

 

“So, how does it work. Mating and-”

 

This time, it had been John’s face that flickered through a serious of various expression and for the first time in Sam’s life, he’d seen his father splutter.

 

“Well, son, you see, when-”

 

“No,” Sam grimaced, “not the….technical side of mating," quickly trying to row himself to safer shores, "the…..erm, bonding. How’d you know if you found your mate?”

 

John scratched the back of his neck, clearly trying to gather the threads of his thoughts.

 

“Well, son, it’s hard to explain, it’s all about…well, it’s all about scent and the Link.”

 

“So, your mate will….smell good?”

 

John huffed a laugh, “good, well, yes, but it’s not just that. You know when you’ve been away for a while and you come back home, to your house, your room, your bed, the way everything smells familiar, and calm, and happy…it’s more a feeling than a scent, really.”

 

Dean tried to hide his interest, but Sam could tell that he’s on the edge of his seat.

 

“I think I get it….” Sam decided to change the topic, because no matter how many times he’d had scents described in colors and senses, it was just another reminder of the most important aspect of Shifter’s life that he’d never be a part of.

 

“What about the Link?”

 

“Well,” John combed a hand through his hair and smiles ruefully, glad to be on a safer territory.

 

“You know how most wolves need to practice the Link, to get accustomed with the presence of another’s mind? Even between family members it takes years to accept and get familiar with somebody else’s thoughts and emotions. With your mate, the Link is established with far much more ease, the more comparable you are, the easier it will be for the Bond to form.”

 

“And True Mates?”

 

John’s mouth quirked into a crooked almost smile, “now that’s just romantic fairytales, Sam, you know how it goes. With your True Mate, the Bond will be there immediately, if you ask your gran, she’ll tell you all about we all have one-half of a Bond that will spring to life when we meet our True Mate.”

 

After, John had decided to cover the technical aspects of mating by ordering them to read up on the subject. Dean had given the book one glance before he’d declared that he didn’t have time for it though Sam  was certain that Dean would sneak down for it later. Sam had blushed furiously all through illustrations of knots and werewolf pregnancies and for the first time, he'd been somewhat grateful for being human.

 

After the Gathering, Dean and Sam’s first and last, John had herded Sam into the front seat of the impala and let Dean and Castiel have the back seat. Castiel’s sister would be riding with the Moors.

 

John’s gaze had been resolutely on the road, but Sam hadn’t been unable to catch a glimpse of his brother and Castiel, tucked together under a massive blanket. Castiel had a needed five stings to the gash on his forehead and he’d been given some painkillers that had knocked him out. Dean had several butterfly patches on his cheek and across his nose, he was bruised and clutched his side when he moved. Still, he had not complained when Castiel leaned his weight against his, he’d just wrapped an arm carefully around his shoulder, his free hand combing through the soft strands of hair at the back of Castiel’s neck.

 

Later, when Castiel had been given a guest room and Anna had curled up on the floor in Mary’s old basket, Dean had tugged Sam aside and quietly confessed that he’d felt Castiel in his mind with such ease, it was as if he’d known him for years.

 

“Maybe this means you’re True Mates,” Sam had said.

 

Dean’s only reply had been a shaky smile and a brotherly pat on Sam’s back.

 

“That’s just fairy tale stuff, Sammy.”

 

 

 

Sitting in the front seat of the impala, Sam cannot help but be reminded of that night. He knows Dean hadn’t gone to the Gathering hoping to find a mate. In fact, the only one looking to settle down had been Benny, who had slunk off after it became apparent that Castiel and Dean had formed a connection. But Castiel and Dean had fitted so easily together, had been so perfect for each other that Sam had never abandoned the thought that they might have been destined to be together, even if Dean would never entertain such a romantic notion.

 

Sam shifts his legs, pushes the car seat further back to try and find some more legroom. Dean’s eyes are fixed on the road, his fingers wrapped tightly around the steering wheel. Usually, there’d be banter and music whenever they went for a drive, even it was just a few minutes down to the store. Now they sat in resounding silence, leaving Sam alone with his thoughts and fears.

 

It had been difficult to watch his brother struggle with how to handle his grief. He’d drunk too much, lost his job, his sense of purpose and sometimes Sam had worried that he’d just been trudging on from one day to the next because Sam had sat at his bedside and begged him to hang on, had said that Castiel had wanted Dean to move on. If he was of the religious sort, he’d ask the Moon to make sure they would find Castiel because Sam didn’t think his brothers would listen to his pleas one more time.

 

Sam is so consumed with his thoughts that when Dean suddenly veers the car to the left, he doesn’t have time to brace for the unexpected turn and slams his head into the window. The car speeds across a parking lot before the breaks whine in protest as Dean slams his foot down. This time Sam is braced for the impact.

 

“What the hell, Dean,” Sam curses, rubbing his throbbing temple.

 

Dean doesn’t answer, his knuckles have gone white against the steering wheel and angry red spots are flashing across his neck.

 

“It’s the car,” he hisses through clenched teeth, “the goddamned Honda.”

 

Still rubbing his head, Sam turns and peers out the window. They’ve stopped in front of a small diner, a long, blue building with a giant otter sign painted over the door. There’s several cars in front of the building and Sam sees no less than four Hondas.

 

“Are you sure?” He says carefully, but Dean descends on him with a vicious snarl.

 

“Of course I’m sure! Look!” Dean jabs a finger at the tail end of the car “see that scratch there, I offered to fix it up for her, but she declined.”

 

“Fine,” Sam replies, supposing he should really know better than to doubt his brother’s ability to recognize one car amongst a dozen.

 

Dean’s reaching for the door handle and is halfway out of the car before Sam’s thoughts catches up with his.

 

“Dean!” He scowls, grabbing hold of his brother’s sleeves, yanking him back. “Get back in the car, what do you think you’re doing?”

 

“I’m going to find her and-”

 

“-And do what, Dean? In a diner full of people? You’ll be lucky if you’re not shot full of silver bullets.”

 

The possibility slowly dawns on Dean and he sinks back into the car, curling in on himself, resting his forehead against the steering wheel. Sam glances away, gives his brother the few moments of privacy he needs to gather himself.

 

“Fine, we’ll wait until she comes out and then follow her, grab her somewhere less conspicuous.”

 

“Follow her in the most conspicuous car in the state?” Sam tries to make his voice sound less condescending, but he’s rewarded with a growl from Dean.

 

“She’s our best lead on Cas, shit, she might even be on her way to scout a new Territory,” Dean’s hand waves about, painting frustration in the air.

 

Sam frowns and glances out the window again.

 

“I’m not saying we’re not going to do anything,” Sam says. He twists around to grab his bag from the backseat of the car, rummages around until he finds what he’s looking for.

 

“I got this from Charlie, it’s a GPS device, it’s used for tracking…cats and dogs. It’s got great range and Charlie downloaded the app for it on my phone. All we gotta do is hook this thing to the tow ball.

 

“Sam, you’re a genius,“ Dean mutters and Sam smiles, “yeah, sure. Let me attach this to the car, then we’ll pull back a bit, wait for the driver to return. Even if it’s not Jane, it’ll be interesting to see where it’s going.”

 

Sam slips out of the car and scampers over to the parked honda. In a ridiculous display of “oh-I-need-to-tie-my-shoelace-” ever, he manages to slip the collar with the GPS onto the tow ball. Then he hurries back to the impala and Dean reverses, driving across the road to the parking lot of a large supermarket.

 

They sit.

 

They wait.

 

Dean is a coiled spring in his seat, his fingers drumming restlessly against the steering wheel, one hand fiddling with the keys in the ignition, foot never far from the pedal.

 

After an hour, and several guests coming and leaving, the door opens and Jane exits. She looks exactly like Dean described her like she’s not changed anything about her appearance in the last two years.

 

Short blond hair cut to perfection just above her shoulders. Slim, black jeans that show off every curve and slope of her body. She’s wearing a red leather jacket, a black scarf around her neck, small, neat, black gloves and carrying an enormous purse.

 

Dean rolls down the window and lifts his nose to the wind, “same goddamned perfume,” he growls.

 

Sam nods.

 

Together they watch her slip into the driver’s seat and a few moments later she blinks out into the traffic. Dean is quick to put the Impala in motion and soon they are no more than four cars behind her, Sam keeping watchful gaze on the little app.

 

“Don’t get too close,” he warns, “it’s better to lose her than raise her suspicions, we’ll still be able to follow her.”

 

It’s a testament to how concentrated Dean is that he doesn’t offer even a roll of his eyes to Sam’s little lecture.

 

They end up tailing her for five hours.

 

She keeps a steady route and Sam realizes that if she doesn’t change her course, they’ll end up in Colorado, the wrong way from Dakota.

 

It’s dark by the time the Honda starts slowing down, turning off the main road to twist and turn through several narrow streets, stopping outside a small motel. As far as motel’s goes, it’s not very impressive. The paint has come off in large flakes, some rooms have wooden panels replacing missing window panes and several cars comes and goes within the hour.

 

It’s not the sort of place you’d expect to find a respectable looking blonde unless she’s up to something that she doesn’t want anybody to see, Sam thinks.

 

“Let her get settled, she might be waiting for somebody or meeting somebody.”

 

Dean nods again, his hands curling around the steering wheel and Sam knows he’s using it as a tether to keep himself, his wolf, from leaping out of the car and rushing straight at her.

 

It’s well past one am before Sam suggests they make their move.

 

“Should we have a plan?” Sam asks, and Dean gives him a smile that’s all teeth. Sam grimaces and mutters, “just remember that you are trespassing, try and keep the Big Bad Wolf on a leash.”

 

Jane’s room is at the far end on the first floor. Her car is parked just outside it and judging by the sounds coming from the next door room, they don’t expect to be interrupted.

 

The’s a simple lock on the door, one that you could probably pick with a screwdriver. Dean, however, is surprised when Sam rolls out a sleek little pouch with a row of small picks.

 

“From dad,” Sam says with a dismissive shrug, “he figured it might come in handing. He gave me a crash course before we left.”

 

“You got any other surprises?”

 

Sam rolls his eyes and slips the first pick into the lock. After a few seconds of scowling and jiggling, the door suddenly slips, and Sam gestures Dean to hurry inside.

 

The first thing Dean notices is the incredible stench of the fruity perfume fermenting the room and everything in it. It makes Dean’s skin prickle and itch.

 

The room is small with a large bed taking up most of the space. Jane is sleeping in it, curled up under the covers, the only thing visible is her blond locks of hair. Her massive purse is sitting on the only table in the room, next to an empty can of diet soda.

 

Sam carefully pries the purse open and lifts out a brown file and Dean can see how the content of it makes him go pale and shaky.

 

Without agreeing on any sort of signal from Sam, Dean leans over Jane’s sleeping form and clamps a hand over her mouth. Her eyes shoot open and she struggles against his hold, but she’s got nothing on Dean’s strength and his wolf relishes in the scent of fear that’s seeping through her pores.

 

Dean lifts a hand to his mouth, let’s the edges of his lips curl back just enough to show off his canine.

 

“You’re going to be very quiet and do exactly as I say, or you’re going to be permanently indisposed. Nod if you understand me.”

 

Jane’s eyes narrow to two dangerous slits, but she nods.

 

“Good, if I remove my hand, are you going to be quiet?”

 

She nods again, and Dean slides his free hand to her wrist, securing it in a vice like grip.

 

“Good,” he tightens his hold on her hand, just enough to see her wince in pain, and then lets his hand drop from her mouth. She gasps and coughs, struggles feebly against Dean’s grip.

 

Jane makes a noise through clenched teeth that Dean thinks is meant to be a curse, “let me-”

 

She falls silent and Dean sees recognition slowly dan on her features. Her eyes go wide, then narrow again, her free hand curls into the duvet, gripping it.

 

“Hello again, Jane Smith,” Dean says in a voice as dark and deadly as black ice, “I think you know why I’m here.”

 

Jane sets her lips into a thin line, but the wolf picks up the signs of her unease. Her scattering pulse, the trail of sweat along her brow. Her bravery is only window dressing.

 

“Let’s skip the small talk, tell me where Castiel is.”

 

“I’m not telling you anything,” she sneers and Dean can sense her defiance rising.

 

“Toss me her wallet,” Dean calls. Sam hesitates, but then digs into her purse and pulls out a black, leather book that Dean easily catches with his free hand.

 

He feels her tense under his grip as he flips the book opens, empties it contents on the bed. Some cards, a small amount of cash, old receipts, bills, an address book and….

 

“Well, what is this, a sister?”

 

Dean holds up a picture of two young women together, arms around each other, smiling to the photographer. One of the women is clearly Jane, and the other bears such striking resemblance that they could have been twins, if not for the obvious age difference. Another picture shows the same woman, this time with a little girl in pigtails.

 

“And niece?”

 

He glances at Jane, sees her gaze dart to the right, hears the skittering of her heart.

 

Good, the wolf thinks, a weakness.

 

“Family is important, isn’t it?” Dean says, low and tight, “how about you help me get my family back, and you’ll get to keep yours?”

 

“Screw you,” Jane scoffs.

 

Dean wets his lips, lets his wolf slip just that much closer until the colors of the room start to dance in tendrils of colors. Jane tries to stifle a gasp and he hears Sam step closer, suddenly cautious. Dean lifts a hand to Sam, their eyes lock for just a second, just long enough for Sam to understand that Dean’s got this. That he’s in control. Sam nods, sucks in a breath and moves to block the doorway.

 

“Cute family,” Dean coos, making a show of studying the picture while his grip slowly tightens on her wrist. A few more inches now and he can crush her bones. Jane gasps in pain, but that’s the only emotion she allows to slip past her mask.

 

“She’s gotta be what…four, five?”

 

Jane’s throat dips as she swallows.

 

Dean holds the picture up to Jane, leans in until he can feel her putrid breath wash over him. Jane’s shoulders curls in defense, lowering her head like a turtle.

 

Jane sucks in a breath, going absolutely still under Dean’s grip. Her heart’s hammering in her chest and Dean holds her gaze, canine eyes hard.

 

“Werewolves prefer their prey alive when they start eating, we know just where to cut to keep you alive long enough.”

 

He slices a sharp finger across her arm, “here,” another vicious jab over her shoulders, “or here,” or…he licks his lips, drags it slowly across her stomach, “or here….”

 

“Have you ever,” he says, his voice cooled to the point of frost, “seen a kid try to keep her guts from spilling out? Try to keep a gaping wound close, their hands slippery with their own intestine.” His lips curls into a feral smile.

 

“Stop it,” Jane says in a trembling voice, “just…stop it. I’ll tell you what you want to know, but you’ll leave my family alone.”

 

Dean curls his fingers tighter around her wrist watches her squirm in pain.

 

“You don’t get to make the terms, Jane,” he spits her name, “this is how it will go. You tell me everything I want to know and then you’re going to leave, you’re never going to set foot in a Territory again. If you do, we’ll hunt your little family down.”

 

“Fine,” she sneers and Dean lets go of her arm, sees angry red and blue velts blossom across her skin. Jane rubs her wrists, tries to still her tremors.

 

“Look, it’s just a job, I’m not going to risk my life for it.”

 

Dean folds his arms across his chest, keeps his eyes locked on Jane.

 

“Who do you work for?”

 

“It doesn’t really work like that,” Jane mutters, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “There are these contracts, right? We don’t just deal with Shifters, we supply all kinds of animals. A prospective client calls a number, makes his wish known. Color and size of a pelt, race or gender on the animal.”

 

“What happens then?” Sam asks.

 

“Usually, a hunter will gather some information on the…target. Size, how dangerous the catch might be, the level of risk involved and all that. Then he sets the prize, the Collector can take it or leave it, there’s no haggling.”

 

“And Castiel?” Dean leans closer to Jane, cannot hide his satisfied smirk when she jerks away from him.

 

“We never know who the clients are, alright? We just….fetch the target. Castiel was…well, Castiel’s case was different.”

 

Dean frowns, but Jane continues before he voices his questions, “when I got his file, there was already enough information on him to allow me to fetch him without having to do any sort of reconnaissance. It contained information about you, your little….tiffs, your routines, Castiel’s usual path. Your work, your family. Everything. Made it all very easy to catch him.”

 

Dean’s mind spins with the implications of Jane’s words. He wants to say something but finds that suddenly the words trapped in his throat.  He swears he can feel them, lodged like a solid mass in his ribcage. The wolf paces his mind, claws at his chest. If Jane had all the information on Cas, that means that whoever…whoever ordered him knew-

 

-It must mean-

 

Jane’s still speaking and Dean shakes away his thoughts, swallows down the bile and the panicky feeling of betrayal that’s so overwhelmingly powerful he’s worried he’ll lose control for real this time.

 

“What?”

 

Jane frowns, “I mean it was a rush job, Castiel had to be taken that day. Don’t ask me why, I got paid twice the normal rate to ensure he was caught.”

 

“How? How did you manage to sneak up on Cas and…get him out of the Territory without anybody noticing.”

 

Sam searches Dean’s face, expression worried.

 

Jane hesitates, her eyes darts to the doorway that Sam’s solid form is blocking.

 

“Just remember our deal,” she hisses, “we will,” Sam says before Dean can open his mouth.

 

“I went to your house,” she nods to Dean, “found one of your work overalls in the laundry. It stank of oil and engine grease and I knew it’d mask my scent. Then I scrubbed the kitchen and the laundry room, put on the overalls and followed the target’s path. He didn’t notice me until I got close enough to use my tranq gun on him. Usually, live captures can be so tricky, but…. he folded like a house of cards and I stuffed him in the boot of my car, draped your old clothes over him and then bathed myself in perfume.”

 

She looks almost proud at their shared expression of shock, her voice smug when she continues, “of course then my car broke down and I was really worried you’d noticed his scent, find him in the trunk of my car. Especially when you started to inspect the scratch there, but I just made myself as obnoxious as possible and-”

 

“What-” Dean swallows. All at once his world shifts and changes and clarity is a vicious, nasty thing. His is cold and clammy, his world tilts and he feels Sam’s grip on his arm, firm and solid, keeping him in place. He’s glad Sam is the one who speaks because Dean fears that if he opens his mouth he may actually be sick.

 

“You’re saying,” Sam rasps, “that Cas was in the trunk of the car when Dean was fixing it?”

 

Jane nods, her smirk less self-assured and more worried. She’s worked with Shifters long enough to recognize when the animal is skimming just under the surface. Dean might have made a promise to her, but his wolf has no such reservations to keep it from tearing into her. She lifts a free hand to her throat.

 

“So then I drove up to the Crossroad inn in North Dakota. Handed him over to this guy there, and that’s the last I saw of him.”

 

Dean closes his eyes, tries to jolt himself out of this nightmare. Cas had been there, inches away from him, trapped and helpless and Dean had helped her get away with him.

 

“Anything else you’d care to share?” Sam asks, one hand still firmly on Dean’s arm. Dean can feel the first tentative nudges of Sam’s attempt to Link with him, to allow himself to be Dean’s tether.

 

Jane swallows and shakes her head.

 

“Fine,” Sam takes a deep, shuddering breath, “you’re officially out of the hunting business. Don’t think we’re not going to keep tabs on you.”

 

Jane huffs folds her arms over her chest, “I suggest you leave now.”

 

Dean’s not really sure how they make it back to the car, he’s not really capable of forming coherent thoughts. He covers his aching eyes with one hand, let’s Sam take control. The wolf howls an angry storm of rage and blood and lust and wrath.

 

He feels weird and shaky like he’s suspended on the edge of a panic attack, one small nudge will push him over. He sucks in sharp breaths, tries to regain control.

 

“Shit, Dean,” Sam cries and steers the car onto the side of the road.

 

Dean pushes the door open, stumbles to his knees as stars explode behind his eyes. Sam’s hand is on him again, tentative and careful on his back.

 

“Breathe through your nose,” Sam murmurs, and Dean presses his lips shut, sucks in air through his nose, “let it seep out through your lips.” Dean inhales, lets his breath whistle out between his lips, feels the slight ease of the pressure against his chest. He listens to Sam’s commands, repeats the motion a couple of times, feels the colors dim.

 

“We’ll find him, Dean,” Sam says in a wet voice, “I promise. We’ll find him and bring him home.”

 


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all you lovely people who are sticking with me. We´re one or two chapters away from Castiel (I know some of you are eager to learn what happened to him). As always, please note that this story is entering its darker stages and that tags will be added.

**Warning:** Graphic description of injuries.

 

 

 **Chapter** **twelve**

 

Despite Sam insisting that they find a motel for the night, they keep on driving and Sam must contend himself with the minor victory of Dean, at least, letting Sam take the wheel for a few hours.

 

Dean has been silent since they left Jane Smith. He´s been staring out of the window, but Sam knows he´s not really looking at anything, that his mind is lost somewhere in a churning vortex of guilt and shame.

 

Several times Sam practices the start of a conversation in his head with sentences such as “it´s not your fault” or “you couldn’t have known.”

But Sam knows that Dean will never let go of the guilt of failing to help Castiel, of unknowingly helping his captor escape. He´ll carry that burden for the rest of his life, no matter what Sam, or anybody else says.

 

There´s more than the guilt, Sam knows. He tightens the grip on the steering wheel. Takes a deep, calming, breath. Somebody had been giving hunters information on Castiel. Had told Jane Smith everything she needed to easily incapacitate Castiel and throw him into the trunk of her car. Dean´s and Castiel squabbles weren’t widely known. He doesn´t think anyone outside of their immediate family and friends knew about it. It means that it had to be somebody from the Territory. Somebody close to the Pack sold Castiel to the Collector. And why was the Hunter in such a rush to catch Castiel? Why did it have to be that day?

 

They pull into South Dakota, a dark sign promising Great Faces Great Places, sometime in the early morning. Sam´s head is throbbing with fatigue and several times he feels the car wobble and dance on the road.

 

"We need to find a motel and get some sleep," Sam says, his eyes stinging.

 

"We keep driving," Dean says, the first words he´s spoken in hours.

 

“We need our heads clear, Dean," Sam says "besides we need some place to serve as a home base as we prepare for the next step.”

 

There´s a moment of silence and Sam braces himself for Dean´s outburst, for Dean demanding he turn over and give the wheel to Dean, that they´ll keep driving until they reach their destination. Instead, all he gets is a quiet "fine."

 

The find a dingy little motel just off the highway. It´s a few hours drive to the Crossroad House while the back of the motel borders on the First North Dakota Territory. It´s a no-where kind of place, with nothing memorable about the building, or probably the people, who stop here.

 

They check in with a lazy clerk who only half-heartedly orders them to sign the guestbook while never taking his eyes off the small, box TV he’s got showing a Spanish soap opera. With a small smirk, Sam signs them in as "Jacob" and "John Smith."

 

Their room is a tiny two-bedroom apartment with a small kitchenette and a miniature bathroom. As soon as they´ve entered, Sam collapses face first onto the bed, while Dean stands in the doorway for a moment, letting his nose pick apart the various scents in the room.

 

Alcohol, sweat, musk, grease, paint, blood, sex.

 

Sometimes a wolf´s sense of smell is more a blessing in disguise. He wrinkles his nose and drags a hand across his face in an effort to wipe away the stench.

 

He puts away their bags, shrugs out off his leather jacket and drapes it carefully over the back of a chair. He checks the perimeter of the small room, locks the door and fastens the security the chain. He makes sure the blinds and curtains are closed and secured against unwanted eyes getting a glimpse into their room. Then he shrugs off the rest of his clothes, places them neatly into a pile on the small table. He shifts.

 

The unpleasant odors from before leaps at him in disgusting colors of reds and mustard yellow. The smells hang in the air like faint mist, but the way they cling to the beddings makes Dean glad that Sam doesn’t know what he’s probably sleeping in.

 

It had been a long drive and the longest Dean has gone without Shifting. He lets his wolf mind settle as he Links his human mind to Sam´s subconscious. It´s a tenuous connection, only made possible by years of familiarity.

 

The wolf paces the length of the room, restless and weary of being boxed in. It craves the endlessness of the skies and the world outside, and it takes some coaxing from Dean before it´s content to curl up on the motel bed, nose tucked into his tail. He closes his eyes, tries to find the Bond, but instead he dreams of hands reaching for him, grabbing him, holding him down and of all-consuming darkness. He opens his mind, blinks away the sensation.

 

He´d sought solace for his grief in bottles of whiskey and beer. He had learned this method of coping from their dad, who had drunk away his sorrow of Mary´s disappearance for five years before Bobby took him aside and had Words with him. He hadn´t touched a drop since. Dean knows that he was heading down the same path and if it hadn´t been for Sam´s early intervention he probably would probably have wound up dead in a gutter. By the time Sam stepped in, his drinking had already cost him his job and it was going to cost him their house too, their home.

 

The house had been an unexpected gift from John upon their Bonding. It had once belonged to his dad´s uncle, but had sat empty for years, suffering the kind of neglect of time and bad weather. Calling it a “fixer upper” would have been a kind assessment. The windows were boarded up, most of the external woodwork was rotted through, the entire front and back porch needed redoing and there was a massive, gaping hole in the roof. When Dean opened the front door it fell off its hinges and in the living room Cas has almost stepped through the floor and into the basement.

 

The floor had a strange planning and John had said that his aunt had  fancied herself something of an  amateur architect. From the street you entered straight into a long kitchen, a dining area to the right, with the kitchen, a utility closet and washing room to the left. Straight ahead was the living room, a large, sprawling area with big, bay windows looking over large trees, overgrown hedges and a lawn. At the far back of the house was the master bedroom with an attached bathroom. It was probably the only room that was habitable and in the middle of it sat an old black, iron wrought bed frame with a mattress that John had said was almost new. There were plenty of room for their baskets and wardrobe and the bathroom had enough space for a proper tub.

 

Across the master bedroom was a small guest room with a large window. It was planned as a nursery, but John´s uncle never had any kids and the- only  thing it were old boxes and furniture.

 

They applied for a loan from the bank and set about fixing the house. Cas, it turned out, had ten thumbs and was an absolute menace with the drill. During the first few days, Dean established rules like "Don´t let Cas use anything electric or sharp." But he was a quick study, and eager to learn, and soon he was sanding down the walls and painting like a professional. They had fixed the outer walls, the gaping hole in the roof and spent a summer rebuilding the porch with help from the Pack. They had isolated and bought new windows. They had debated on the merits of white vs. colored walls and had settled on a compromise of painting the bedroom a light, calming, blue color while the rest of the house remained a soft white.

 

The basement had still remained raw, bare concrete walls and floorboards, but Dean had plans for a workshop, somewhere he could fix appliances, maybe try his hands on woodworking.

 

He learned other things about Cas that summer as well. Cas, it turned out, was somebody who liked to dive into skips to rescue old furniture, drag home bundles of sticks and curious shaped rocks he found near the river.  There´d be chairs with no seat, a sofa with a rat´s nest.  None of their chairs matched, and their cutlery and crockery came from an old, abandoned army installation.  But Cas would take the old chair and have Dean fit a new seat, and then paint it blue, he´d arrange the sticks in a strange formation on their wall that seemed to have no rhyme nor reason, but looked nice. He´d learn how to redress the old sofa and put it on their back porch. In their kitchen, he hung a bunch of old, small mirrors, while various teapots lined the top shelf, in their living room he sorted their books by colors.

 

One day, when Cas came home with a bundle of old framed photographs and hung them up in the living room, Dean had asked why there was a bunch of old,creepy, strangers watching him drink his beer. Cas had gotten that look, those wide, blue eyes of him going fathomless, the slight tilt of his head that made him look like a wounded bird.

 

““I just think it´s sad that somebody was just going to throw them out, they belonged to somebody once,” Cas said, touching the picture of a young girl on a chair. She wore french braids and a large dress and on her lap sat a doll with the same braids, the same dress. The same, sullen look. The picture was faded with age, yellow and brown, and the girl had the kind of smile you’d only associate with little children from ghost stories. The ones carrying a big knife and looking for their mommy. But Dean smiled and patted Cas´s shoulder.

 

He  understood that Cas was rescuing abandoned furniture and unwanted pictures, because Cas and Anna had been abandoned and unwanted, cast out by their Pack and left to fend for themselves in the cold.

 

Cas loved that house, Dean loved it too, because it was theirs, filled with old memories and waiting for Dean and Cas to make new ones. Maybe even put the nursery to its proper use.

 

Jane Smith had ruined all that.

 

 

 

Sam´s accustomed to sharing his room with a giant wolf, so he’s not surprised to find himself rudely awaked by a wet tongue in his ear.

 

“Ugh, Dean”, he pushes him out of his face and wipes drool away from his cheek, “that´s disgusting.”

 

(We should get going.)

 

Dean sits back on his haunches, tilts his head, watching Sam.

 

(We should get something to eat,) Sam replies, (grab the shower and I will run out and get us some breakfast.)

 

Dean stands, and in one fluid motion, Shifts into his human shape. It´s a relocation of reality, there is a wolf, and then there is a human. Sam might be accustomed to waking up to a wolf in his room, but the transformation from one shape to the other still leaves him a bit rattled because his brain keeps telling him it isn´t possible. Isn’t natural.

 

Sam shakes his head, “I´ll be right back.”

 

An hour later they are heading towards Rufus with only a vague description of the direction and Dean´s nose steering them clear of any unwanted attention. Sam´s wearing a baseball cap, pulled low to hide his face. They don´t think they´ll run into anybody from Crossroad House this far out, but it´s better to be safe than sorry.

 

 

Rufus, it turns out, lives in an old fashioned log cottage in the middle of nowhere. They’ve been making their way through the forest for what seemed like hours when the woods suddenly opens to a clearing, and there it is. The property is well kept, the grass cut low, not a tree or bush in sight. Probably, Dean thinks, to make it more difficult for people to sneak up on him. As if sneaking up on a Shifter was even possible. The cottage is small with a black door, two windows on either side with matching black shutters. A thin trail of smoke climbs up to the sky.

 

Dean raises his hand to knock on the door when it’s suddenly yanked open and he comes face-to-face with a shotgun.

 

“I’m sure you’re aware that you are trespassing,” the man sneers, slowly moving the barrel of his gun from Sam to Dean.

 

“Now, I don’t care what’s brought a human and a Shifter to my door, but this gun is-”

 

“Calm down, man,” Dean says, lifting both his hands in a placating gesture, “we’re John Winchester’s boys, he said you’re an old friend, might be able to help us out?”

 

Rufus’s eyes narrow to two slits, the gun doesn’t waver.

 

“We’re here about some Collectors from Crossroad Houses,” Sam adds.

 

Rufus doesn’t look fully convinced, but he lowers his gun, just enough for Dean to exhale a breath of relief.

 

“I heard John Winchester had a human one,” his dark eyes trails over Sam before he turns his attention to Dean, his nostrils flaring as his nose dissects Dean’s scent. Alpha. Dean keeps his gaze firmly locked on Rufus, smiling just tightly enough to show the tip of his canines. For a second, Dean sees a flicker of uncertainty in his gaze, but then he squares his posture, his shoulders going to taunt. Ready to fight if necessary.

 

“Fine,” Rufus says in a voice that tells them that it isn’t fine, not really, and that he will be watching their every move.

 

They step inside the cabin and it smells of wood, oil used for cooking and the musky scent of smoke and ash. There’s an old-fashioned wood stove in the middle of the room, orange light dancing against the ash stained window. On top of it is a dark kettle. There are two chairs by an old table, a bookshelf with a couple of books. On one side, a green curtain obscures what is probably the sleeping area. Everything in the house speaks of a man who seldom entertains guests and who is still preferring to live without the aid of modern appliances.

 

Sam stands by the doorway a little awkwardly, hands in his pockets, his eyes surveying the room. Dean’s attention is on the green curtain and the scent he picks up from it. Blood. Bile. Vomit. Sweat.

 

“Who else is here?” Dean demands, he feels Sam stiffen beside him, his hands balling into fists.

 

Rufus places the gun by the doorway. Dean doesn’t doubt that there are other firearms hidden away in the house, never out of reach from Rufus´s grip.

 

Without answering Dean’s question, Rufus walks over to the curtain and pulls it aside. He nods his head a little in a come-hither look and Dean and Sam move cautiously crosses the room.

 

“Found in the forest a few days past,” Rufus explains. There’s a man on Rufus’s bed, a man blackened and burned, his skin torn and blistered.

 

The tips of his fingers are raw, clawed right down to the bone. Hands, once long and elegant, are now thin, withered things, each digit standing out like the links on a chain. His skin is gaunt, stretched across his bones so tightly Dean fears it might poke through it at any moment. His hair is wet from sweat and lies plastered in thin strands against his shallow forehead. His throat is wrapped in thick bandages, the fabric still bright white. Recently changed. Slowly, as they watch, faint specks of blood seep through it. His skin is covered in angry stains of black and blue, of lesions, cuts and

 

For a moment, Dean thinks he might be dead, until he sucks in a raspy breath, his chest heaving with the effort.

 

“What the hells happened to him?” Dean mutters around a lump in his throat. He knows the answer, though, he doesn’t want to hear it.

 

“Crossroad Houses is what happened,” Rufus growls, “near as I can tell they mistook him for dead and tossed him into the woods. When I found him, he was caked in dirt and grime as if he’d clawed his way out of a grave. Resilient son of a bitch,” Rufus murmurs with something like awe in his voice. “Couldn’t leave the poor sod in the rain, not when he’s survived those bastards.”

 

“What happened to his neck,” Sam asks, a worried glance at his brother. They don’t really need a visualization of their worst fears.

 

“Silver collar, I think,” Rufus explains, “I have heard they use it to keep a man from Shifting, and if a man can’t shift at a full moon, he’ll go mad, claw himself to pieces, gauge out of his own eyes. That kind of nasty shit. Shifters know this, it’s one of the first things we’re taught and the threat of it is real useful if you want one to become obedient.”

 

“I thought,” Sam stutters, “the Collectors…that they kept them in zoos and stuff.”

 

Rufus shrugs, “there’s also fighting pits.”

 

Dean forces his eyes shut and bites his lip until he can feel the tangy taste of blood in his mouth.

 

“Dean…” Sam says quietly and takes a step towards his brother. He raises his hand but doesn’t touch him, just keeps it hovering over his shoulder. There’s no real comfort he can offer to curb the images going through Dean’s mind.

 

“I’m fine,” Dean mutters. He dabs his forehead with the sleeve of his shirt, wiping dampness from his eyes. He can see Sam swallowing whatever words he was about to say. Dean twists away, stares out of the small window high on the wall. He watches the dust sparkle in the light. It takes all is effort to control the wolf, and even so it’s like trying to contain a storm in a glass jar. He feels the animal clawing at the restraints, snarling and furious at Dean for allowing this to happen to their mate and each vicious lash is a promise that it will never, ever, forgive him.

 

“So, what is it you boys want to know about the Crossroad Houses?” Rufus asks.

 

“My mate,” Dean says in a rusty voice. He swallows, tries again, “my mate, Castiel, was taken by Hunters, sold to a Collector. We tracked them down to the Crossroad House a few hours from here, we suspect they have some sort of….”

 

He’s not sure how to explain it and is grateful when Sam seizes the silence, “we’ve questioned a Hunter and she said the instructions for Castiel’s capture came to that Crossroad House, we’re hoping to learn who ordered him.”

 

“I’m sorry to say this, boys, but-” Rufus starts, a quick glance at the prone man on his bed.

 

“We’re fairly certain he’s alive,” Sam hurries to add, “the instructions were specific in that regards, besides Cas….he’s an Omega,” Rufus’s eyes widens, “and those are far too valuable to kill,” Sam finishes.

 

“Our dad suggested you might have some information,” Dean adds.

 

“I might,” Rufus says cautiously, “but it ain’t going to be very uplifting stuff.”

 

“We’ll hear it,” Dean says. His wolf is still here, simmering just below the surface, tense and brittle, like the first warning drums of a sheet of ice, cracking and breaking apart.

 

They cram themselves around Rufus's old, rickety table and Rufus fills their cups with coffee so thick that it would probably have been better suited to coat tarmac.

 

“I run into Hunters from time to time,” Rufus says as he takes a long sip from his cup. A few droplets of coffee clings to his whiskers and he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand before he continues.

 

“About four or five years past, a group of guys, some pimpled faced youth from some big city or another, started to sneak around my house. Canvassing the area. I bet they thought they were subtle, that I could smell their cologne a mile off.  I just assumed they were curious, that they thought it’d be fun to check up on an old werewolf. I thought that if I pretended I didn’t know they were there, they’d go tired of their game and head on home,” Rufus snorts into his coffee, “what a fool I was.” Sam hides his grimaces behind the rim of his cup and Dean tries to quench his smile, he can see where this story is likely heading.

 

“One evening I caught their scent as they edged along the line of trees. I used my back door, circled around them, watched them as they approached my home, guns drawn, smug as you pleased, waving their hands about and smirking as if they were playing soldiers. They weren’t too pleased to find my cabin abandoned. I might have felt pity for’em, you know, we’ve all been young and stupid, but then they decided to trash my home. Broke the windows, smashed my furniture. Drank my liquor.”

 

“What did you do?” Dean asks.

 

Rufus grins: a smile that is all sharp, white teeth.

 

“I snuck up on them. Most of them were wise enough to drop their gun and run away, but I got a hold of their intrepid leader. Guy was so scared he pissed his pants,” Rufus chuckles drily, but then all good humor evaporates from his eyes. “I was just going to scare him good and proper, make sure he never tried anything like this again. But the guy thought he was in serious shit and started babbling about exchanging his freedom for information. He had a girlfriend who worked on one of the Crossroads and she had told him there was a lot of money in werewolf pelts, he said that’s why they wanted to kill me- to sell my pelt.”

 

“We already know-” Dean growls and is interrupted by Sam’s foot striking his shin. Dean meets Sam´s gaze across the table and Sam gives him a look, the same one he’d used when Dean interrupted their mother.

 

“Sorry,” Dean mutters.

 

“They’ve got this whole system set up from separating their clients from regular customers, y’know, those guys who are actually there for the camping, fishing or whatever.” Rufus continues.

 

Dean feels his body going taunt, and he grabs hold of the edge of the table to keep himself from interrupting Rufus again. This is what they had been missing, a way to get in touch with the Collectors. Rufus watches him, his gaze dark and knowing.

 

“Some of their staff,” Rufus says, “has this tattoo, long, dark lines. Some of them are kinda artsy, some are hidden in other drawings, but it’s always a trident.”

 

“A trident? Like, the kind the devil uses?” Dean leans back in the chair.

 

“Just the same. Now, the tattoo isn’t necessarily obvious, it could be part of a larger image, hidden in letters, that sort of thing.” Rufus takes another sip of his coffee. “The guy said that all you had to do is to tell one of these people with the tattoos that you want the “Crossroad Deal.”

 

“What happens then?”

 

Rufus shrugs, “the guy didn’t know.”

 

“I guess they’d test you,” Sam muses, “they must have a system in place to weed out cops and reporters, people sympathetic to Shifters.”

 

Rufus makes a considering noise, “might be.”

 

“Alright,” Dean says, splaying his hands on the table, “So Sam needs only to find one of this people with the right tattoo and pretend he’s interested in a pelt.”

 

“You´ll need a decent cover story,” Rufus says, and then raises his coffee cup to Sam, as if he intends to toast him, “and a haircut.”

 

Sam´s muttered response is interrupted by a sudden loud, wheezing gasp from behind the curtains. The guy coughs for several moments before there is a disgusting, wet sound and the stench of sickness wafts through the air followed by a low, agonizing moan. Rufus wrinkles his nose and pushes his chair back from the table.

 

“Let´s see if our guest is awake,” he murmurs. 

 


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I´m terribly sorry for the long wait, I never knew being a teacher is far busier than being a student. 
> 
> I´ve added some new content to chapter 12, so you may need to go and re-read the end of it for this chapter to make any sense.
> 
> Thanks to all of you who are still sticking with me.
> 
> As always, unbetaed.

**Chapter thirteen.**

 

The bury the unknown Shifter in Rufus's backyard. Dean insists on digging the grave and the ground is hard and full of rocks and roots that impede his progress. He sheds his shirt, rolls up the sleeves of his Henley and feels his skin prickle against the gusts of wind that grinds against his skin.   Shovel after shovel of dirt is piled along the ditch, he claws free rocks until his fingers sing with pain and he relish each note because they lessen the sound of the horrific images that are running on a loop in his mind.

 

Rufus watches him with an expression that is impossible to read though Dean suspects that it might be pity. Sam’s expression is all too obvious and Dean wishes his brother was better at curtailing his emotions because he does not need Sam’s sorrowful look to add to the weight on his shoulders. Neither have said it and the words lingers on each ragged breath that mists the air, each gaze that slices along his bent back as he forces the shovel into the ground, that this could have been Castiel they are burying, that there is a very real possibility that they will be lucky to even find a body to bury.

 

They wrap the corpse in an old blanket and Rufus tips his bottle of beer at the bundled remains in a kind of salute. Dean wipes his gritty hands on his pants and together with Sam they roll the poor guy into his grave. His body hardly makes a sound as it hits the bottom.

 

For a moment, they stand on the edge, neither saying a words, unable to pull their eyes away from the pitiful shape.

 

“You want to….um, say a few words?” Sam asks.

 

Dean’s heart clenches painfully, beset with the memories of the last time he dug a grave and stood staring down at Anna’s body wrapped in Cas’s blue blanket. He fights to keep his face blank, knows that his silence will be its own reply. Cas has been gone for almost two years but never before has the possibility that he might actually be dead been so acute. He has never given voice to his suspicions: that Cas had just lost himself to the Wolf in his mind. He always seemed more spiritually intend with his animal, like the beast was an old companion and not something that constantly threatened to seize control over his Mind should he lose his Links and tethers.

 

Maybe he had even tired of their constant bickering, the violent mood swings that plagued their home in the weeks proceeding his disappearance. Dean cringes to think of them, doors slammed, terse and taunt silence stretched between them across the dinner table, the chasm between their bodies as they curled up on separate edges of the bed, even if they always woke up curled around each other like puppies. Maybe he had grown restless with the confines of the Territory, his inability to find a job and something to occupy his days with. Cas was exceptionally smart, even if he hadn’t had the privilege of any sort of formal schooling that most pups got with along with their Yearmates. He could have just decided he’d be better off with the animal and wandered. It’s wasn’t as if it hasn’t happened before.

 

Maybe he just got tired of you, his mind supplies in a curdling voice. You spent all your day down at the garage and sometimes you were happy you had to work an extra shift, just so that you wouldn’t have to go home to your mate.

 

Dean wishes it wasn’t true and he balls his hands into fists to anchor his rage, even as his view tilts and blurs into a hazy array of colors.

 

“We should send his name to the Moon,” Rufus voice yanks Dean’s out of his mired thoughts. He shakes his head, and his vision settles.  Dean glances up at the older Shifter who takes a swing from his beer and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Their eyes meet, but Rufus doesn’t ask.

 

“We don’t know his name,” Sam mutters.

 

“It’s the sentiment that counts,” Rufus says and grabs a handful of dirt that he lets slip from his grasp and into the grave.

 

“We send your name to the Moon,” he murmurs and takes another swig from his bottle before he wanders back to his cabin. After a moment, Sam echoes his movements, waiting for Dean to do the same.

 

Dean digs his hands into the mound of dirt, grabs a fistful and sprinkles it onto the bundle below, breathes in the scent of cold earth, splintered roots and the tinge of decay.

 

Cas hadn't left him, he had been taken by Hunter, trussed up like a gift to be presented to the Collector who had…who had picked him out of some goddamned catalog.

 

“We’ll make sure the Moon knows your name,” he quietly promises, not sure if he intends it to the body in the unmarked grave, or the bastards that took his mate from him.

 

Dean grabs the shovel again and starts filling the hole. Sam watches him, never saying a word.

 

 

 

It’s nighttime by the time they pile back into their rental car, leaving Rufus’ cabin behind like a dark ship in the wilderness. They still haven’t spoken, and Dean can smell Sam’s anxiousness curling off him in thick waves of scent that make his nose itch.

 

“Just speak your mind, Sam,” Dean sighs, gripping the wheel tighter, bracing himself for Sam’s words.

 

“I know you’re planning to lurk around the Crossroads Houses, Dean,” Sam says. Dean’s not overly surprised that Sam figured out that he had no intention of letting Sam approach that place alone.

 

“I ain’t letting you go on your own, Sammy,” Dean says feelings his brother’s exasperated sigh against his skin.

 

“These people,” Sam starts, not sure which adjective to apply to them. Dangerous. Deadly. Crazy. “You saw what they did to that poor guy we just buried, Dean.”

 

“Exactly why you can’t go on your own. You need backup.”

 

Sam huffs a breath that’s something like a rueful laugh, “you can’t help me in there, Dean. Don’t you remember what they said, they got sterling silver in all the windows and door frames, and Dean-” Sam turns to face his brother, bolting him to the car seat with his gaze, “this is a place filled with Hunters and Collectors, if they find you anywhere near those cabins, they will shoot you and you can bet they’ll have silver bullets. What’s going to happen to Cas then?”

 

Dean digs his fingers into the steering wheel, lacing his anger into imitated leather. He knows Sam is right, he’ll be utterly useless if anything happens to Sam while he’s at Crossroad Houses. He’s felt useless for so long now, he doesn’t like how…how almost comfortable he’s become with the sensation.  He couldn’t keep his mate safe, and now he has to let his little brother risk without being able to do anything should he get into trouble.

 

“Fine,” Dean forces the words past his sharp teeth, “but you will call as soon as you know anything, deal?”

 

“Deal,” Sam agrees.

 

They drive on the darkness in the car only interrupted by the sweeping lights of passing cars.

 

“I’ve been wondering,” Sam says, “Jane Smith said she got a file on Cas.”

 

“Yes,” Dean says. He thinks he knows where Sam is going, but that he’s apprehensive of saying what needs to be said.

 

“With all this information on him that let her capture him. She said it had all this information about your relationships, the arguments and-”

 

“-And you can’t help but think that it means that somebody close to us must have given it to her.”

 

“Yeah,” Sam swallows, his posture slumping in the car seat, his fingers laced in his laps, “I mean, Cas’s usual path was pretty well known, but that the two of you were having….some disagreements, that wasn’t exactly common knowledge.”

 

“So, not just somebody in our Pack, but somebody in our family.”

 

Sam nods and Dean can see his Adam’s apple working against his next words, “that doesn’t really make it a very long of list of suspects, Dean. I mean, they could have told somebody who told the Hunters and Collectors, but….”

 

“I know,” Dean says, “we’ll deal with it later.” And that is definitely a promise.

 

 

 

His cabin is located at the far end of a narrow trail and is more secluded than the cluster of cabins near the main building with the resort reception and restaurant. It´s a tiny structure, painted dark with moss colored window panes and shutters and it seems to lurch against a large oak tree that´s curling its limbs over the roof. To the right is the outdoor toilet, a tap to collect water and an outdoor shower. The interior of the cabin delivers exactly what the Crossroad homepage promises, a warm and relaxing interior. A gray couch in front of a small, stone fireplace, a small kitchenette with a tiny electric fridge. There are cheap paintings on the walls, spilled colors of autumn and majestic stags.

 

Sam opens the windows and runs his hands across the wooden frame, laced with sterling silver.  The view offers nothing but the endless spread of the forest and mountains and scattered through the nearest trees are a few birds that bid the evening welcome with their song. If Sam didn’t know what sort of sordid deals that went behind in the scenes at Crossroads Houses, he would think it a nice place to bring the family on a vacation from the hectic city life.

 

After unpacking his meager belongings, Sam shrugs on his jacket steps outside into the dwindling daylight. It´s colder than he´d suspected and by the time he reaches the main building his fingers are cold and stiff. The receptionists smile at him, and Sam bobs his head before heading towards the restaurant and the bar. If there´s anywhere he´ll find one of these guys with the tattoo, it´ll be here.

 

This early in the evening, the restaurant is packed with families and the sound of children talking loudly and running up and down between the chairs, dodging waiters and their parent´s half-hearted admonitions of being careful. Sam finds an empty bar stool at the far end of the bar and orders up a plate of burgers with fries and whatever is on tap. He watches the staff, all of them clad in jeans and black shirts and by the end of his meal he suspects he might be too early for the kind of patrons the tattooed staff would cater too.

 

 

The next evening he waits until it´s well past ten before shrugging on his jacket and heading out. There’s only one family in the restaurant at this hour, one boy sitting sleepily at the table with his sister, older, younger, it’s hard to tell, is throwing a tantrum on the floor while the parents finishes their dinner with weary resignation.

 

Sam heads to the bar again, slipping onto the same seat as last evening.

 

He has spent the day doing reconnaissance of the place and answering Dean´s many texts that, yes he was alright, and no, he had no news yet. He’d gone on a hike on one of their junior trails, nodded to families and fellow hikers he met along the path and enjoyed a rare warm day of early spring. The hike had taken a little more than three hours and when he returned he found himself restless. So he’d stocked the kitchenette with snacks, filled the fridge with beer and ended up on the resort’s archery range where an enthusiastic instructor had taught him the basic principles of archery.

 

There’s such a relaxed and family friendly atmosphere at the Crossroad Houses, that it’s difficult to imagine any sort of shady business taking place. There are plenty of families, kids running around in the playgrounds, with young and elderly couples strolling lazily through the woods. There are also plenty of serious hunters, geared up like they are preparing for armageddon though Sam is glad to see that there are dedicated areas for handling game that is sheltered from the family friendly zones.

 

The bartender this evening is a tall and slim women with long, red, hair that reaches to her waist. She moves with such ease behind the bar that Sam can’t help but admire her figures. He’s not the only one appreciative of the view, a brunette with a glass of wine is keeping one eye in book and the other on the bartender. She catches’ Sam’s eyes and winks and Sam tries to staunch his furious blush with a sip from his drink. The red brunette laughs, shuts her book and sidles over to Sam with a gait that suggests that this is not her first glass of wine.

 

“Good evening,” she says, dropping the book onto the counter and sliding elegantly onto the chair.

 

“Evening,” Sam nods, letting his eyes take in the red head’s crisp business suit, impossibly tall heels and the string of black beads around her neck. She defiantly looks like she’s not at the Crossroads for hunting and hiking.

 

“My name’s Ruby,” she says offering Sam a slender hand that Sam shakes tentatively.

 

“Steven,” he offers, “Steven Tyler.”

 

Ruby arches a perfectly manicured eyebrow and attempts to hide a smirk behind the rim of her glass.

 

“Like the Aerosmith singer?”

 

Sam forces a tight smile, “I get that all the time.”

 

“I bet,” Ruby laughs softly, folding one slender leg over the other, keeping her dark eyes on Sam’s.

 

“Are you studying business?” Sam asks with a slight nod to her book. It’s Josh Kaufman’s The Personal MBA A World-Class Business Education.

 

Ruby smiles again and takes another sip of her wine before she answers, “I’m hoping for a promotion.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“I work here,” Ruby adds to Sam’s blank expression. Sam feels his heart skip a beat and struggles to keep his sudden interest from reaching his eyes. He takes a swing of his beer, feeling Ruby following every movement, not unlike a cat watching its prey. Sam takes a breath and decides to pick and chooses his words carefully.

 

“It’s a nice place,” he offers with sincerity, “I haven’t been here before, a friend of mine suggested it?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

Ruby places her empty glass on the counter and the bartender appears as if summoned and fills it up, deep, red liquid sloshing against the glass.

 

“He said it was a good place to get away for a bit,” Sam shakes his head to the bartenders silent glance at his beer glass. He needs to keep his wits about him.

 

“It can be,” Ruby says. She slips a hairband from her wrist and onto her fingers and then with an elegant twirl of her arms, fastens her hair into a neat bun just above the nape of her neck. Sam tries not to stare at the traces of black ink that’s suddenly exposed on her pale skin. The dark lines, the intricate design.

 

Ruby watches him, cants her head a little, her smile sharp and red as her hand suddenly slides along Sam’s knee, lingers there far too long to be considered an accidental caress.

 

“I want the Crossroad deal,” Sam stumbles into the sentence so quickly he doesn’t have time to hide his jittery nerves. He can only hope it lends some authenticity to his request. Ruby’s eyes narrows for a second, her fingers digging into his leg and Sam can’t help but think that he was wrong to compare her to a cat, that a far more dangerous creature sits beside  him.

 

“Really?” she says, drawing out the words in a way that makes Sam certain he’s walking into a trap.

 

“Yes, my friend told me this was the place for it.”

 

“Your friend is awfully well informed,” it’s probably meant to sound amused, but it comes out with a sharp bite. Sam glances down at her hand, still curled into his knee, but makes no move to correct or remove her grip on him.

 

“Was he wrong?”

 

Ruby pulls back, the motion agitated, almost angry. He can still feel the imprint of her fingers against his knee. For a heartbeat, Sam’s certain that Ruby is either going to kiss him, or throw her glass of wine in his face.

 

“It’s not a deal that’s available to every man with a friend,” she purses her lips, her gaze suddenly calculating. Sam presses his lips to a thin line, forces his eyes to hold hers, hoping his doesn’t betray him.

 

“How about to a man with an unlimited trust fund?”

 

Her eyes flash, her almost genuine this time.

 

“Why don’t you come by my office later one, after midnight?”

 

Sam swallows around the lump in his throat and nods.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam finds Cas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that this where the story takes its darker turn. There are warnings for possible triggers involving: psychological abuse, implied torture, emotional abuse, kidnapping, captivity, talk of breeding (though there is no non-con in this story).
> 
> Thanks for reading and supporting me.
> 
> As always, this is unbetaed.

**Chapter fourteen.**

 

A few minutes past midnight Sam navigates his way through the corridors and to Ruby’s office with a growing sense of trepidation. 

 

His fingers curl around the phone in his pocket, not to assure himself that he hasn’t forgotten it, but to stop himself from texting Dean. It’s not like he has anything new to tell him, he reminds himself, for all he knows, Ruby could be a bust and he’s walking into something entirely different.

 

Sam swallows around the lump in his throat, straightens his posture and tugs on the sleeves of his shirts, tries to slip into the suit of somebody with an unlimited trust fund and willing to commit a federal crime.

 

It only takes two knocks before the door slides open, emitting a pale sliver of light into the dark corridor and the figure of Ruby, armed with a cocked brow and a dangerous smile.

 

“Come in,” she says, sliding the door wide open and moving aside just enough for Sam to squeeze past her without feeling entirely inappropriate with their sudden proximity.

 

“Nice place,” he offers, sticking his hands in his pockets with the mien of a casualness.

 

It is a nice office, though, spacious and painted with a dull white color scheme that manages to be both relaxing and dignified. There are several paintings on the walls, the same nature and hunting scenes that decorate his own cabin though these seems to be the original works.

 

His gaze falls upon the mounted head of a deer above the sleek, black, office desk. He can see its reflection in the surface of the desktop, the milky stare of its dead eyes. He feels Ruby’s gaze on him as well, calculating and cautious, and it reminds Sam that she’s still assessing him, that the can still screw this up. So he fixes a smile on his face, slides his hands out of his pockets and clasps them on the small of his back. Steven Tyler, he thinks, trust fund kid who has lived his life with the firm belief that money can buy him everything.

 

“So, how do we do this?”

 

Ruby is still staring at him, her gaze cooled to the point of frost.

 

“First, we’re going to see if you’re really who you say you are,” she says and crosses the office with steps that are far more steady than when he saw her in the bar a few hours ago. He moves aside and watches her slide elegantly into a large office chair, twirling it in place with all the drama from a scene from a gangster movie.

 

“Your phone,” she says curtly. Sam can feel the steady thrum of his heart and he allows it five anxious beats before he slides his phone free from his pocket and places it on her desk, unlocking it for her perusal. Thank God he didn’t text Dean, he thinks. The only thing on there should be the number to Dean, Bobby and Charlie’s fake phones.

 

Ruby smiles, all teeth and sharp edges as she browses through the content of his phone.

 

“Not many names on this thing, only numbers,” she muses.  Sam plasters on Steven’s smile, “it’s my work phone,” he explains, “I tend to change it frequently.”

 

Ruby makes a considering noise and then throws his phone at him. Sam catches it with expert hands and wonders if this too was part of the test.

 

“There’s an admittance fee,” Ruby says. She opens a drawer and pulls out a cream-colored envelope. She places it on her desk and with her nod of permission, Sam picks it up.

 

Inside is a business card, a sum of money written on one side, a bank account on the other.

 

Ten thousand dollars.

 

Sam’s smile tightens, despite Ruby’s assessing eyes. They had expected that there might be some unforeseen expenses, but this is far more money than Sam had imagined. What if Charlie can´t get it for him?

 

“Now?” He asks. Ruby sinks deeper into the leather office chair and flickers a lock of hair away from her eyes, the motion agitated.

 

“Or we can both pretend we were never here,” she says.

 

Sam turns away to keep a straight face. Well, here goes nothing, he thinks, finding Charlie’s number in his contact list and hoping she’s still awake.

 

Charlie answers on the first ring, as if she’s been sitting with the phone in her hands, waiting for his call.

 

“Charlotte,” he says, imagining the face Charlie’s making at that particular alias, “I need some money.”

 

“Sure can do,” Charlie answers sweetly and Sam imagines her sitting down in front of her computer screens, their pale light washing over her face.

 

“What does he need?”

 

“Be quiet, Ash,” Charlie hisses. Sam turns with an apologetic smile to Ruby who simply folds her hands on the desk, her face an unreadable mask.

 

“Ten thousand,” Sam says and hears the hiss at the other end.

 

“Yeah? Are you cultivating some expensive habits we should worry about?”

 

“It’s an entrance fee,” he murmurs. For several seconds, the only sound is Charlie’s ragged breath in his ear and the sound of her fingers running across the keyboards. Steve is not the only one committing a federal crime this night.

 

“The number?”

 

Sam reads off the bank statements and tries to ignore the bicker between Ash and Charlie about exactly where the money should come from and how they need to hide the trail, yet still make it seem like it came from Steven’s accounts.

 

“Done,” Charlie says after several terse moments, “be careful,” she adds.

 

“Thanks.”

 

Sam ends the call and turns to Ruby who is studying a smart tablet. It takes a few seconds, but then her smile melts a little, seems suddenly genuine and her posture relaxes.

 

“Everything is in order,” she purrs, sliding out of the chair and moving across the room to a large painting of a pack of wolves in a winter landscape, their breath misting, trees heavy with snow. Sam can’t help but wince at the irony of it all, as Ruby slides the painting aside and reveals a small safe mounted into the wall. She’s blocking his view of the combination and the only glimpse of the content he catches shows nothing but a few binders and a couple of black notebooks.

 

Ruby selects a leather brown folder before shutting the safe and guiding the painting back in place.

 

“These are in our current selection,” she places the folder on the desk and gestures for Sam to take a seat. Sam wipes his hands on his pants before he lowers himself to the very edge of the visitor's chair, trying to still his jittery nerves by folding one leg over the other.

 

“Some are in a private collection, but most are amenable to a serious offer.”

 

Sam takes the folder and tries very hard not to think about all the other people who’s been in this very chair and browsed a selection of Shifters as if this was a goddamned Sears catalog.

 

He feels his skin prickle as he studies the first page, a young, female Alpha with pale brown eyes and unruly hair. Her shift is a small, sleek, wolf. She can’t be much older than him and the picture has captured the woman playing with a younger version of herself, probably her daughter.

 

The first page sets the standard for the rest of the content, pictures of Shifters in both forms, caught unaware on camera, marked with additional information such as age, an assessment of the quality of their pelt. A price tag. He allows himself to experience the searing pain in his chest, the tight lump in his throat. They are looking for Cas, but the burning weight of the catalogue in his hands makes Sam realize that there are hundreds of Shifters who have been taken from their families and that this is an extensive and lucrative industry.

 

“Who decides the price? “ Sam works his words past his teeth and tears his eyes away a black matriarch standing behind two tall boys, all of them smiling at the camera.

 

“The price is determined by several factors,” Ruby says, “the rarity of the species, the quality of their pelt, the calculated risk of capturing them. Hunting someone in a large Territory with a tightly  knit pack or somebody with an alpha mate is far more dangerous than a loner with no ties.” Ruby twirls a lock of hair around her finger, watching Sam’s expression, “children or young are the most expensive. The younger they are, the easier they are to condition to survive captivity. Of course, omegas are the most prized for their breeding potential, though I’ve never heard of a successful breeding in captivity.”

 

Sam is so focused on keeping his expression neutral that he almost doesn’t recognize’s Cas’s picture when it suddenly appears in his lap. Cas is staring into the camera with a shy smile and bright blue eyes. Sam sees his brother’s arm around his shoulder, even if the picture has been cut in two. The picture of his shift has been taken at some distance and probably with a camera with a decent zoom lens. It shows him standing by the river, his nose to the air, his coat gleaming in the sunlight. Had Cas been scenting whoever was taking his picture? He can’t remember Cas ever complaining about an unfamiliar smell in their Territory.

Sam has to loosen his grip to not damage the paper. He forces his eyes to the corner with the original price tag. 3.2 million dollars. Shit.

 

“Is this the only omega?”

 

Ruby tilts her head and Sam turns the folder around, gesturing to Cas’s picture.

 

“It is. I’m certain another one could be located, but it might take up to several months to have all the necessary information required to complete a capture.”

 

Sam nods a little, and Ruby taps the bottom of the page where somebody has added a handwritten annotation.

 

“It’s in a private collection, but I see here that the owner put it up for sale about six weeks ago, there’s some note here about potential damage.”

 

Sam forces himself to move past the implication of Ruby’s sentence, “how long has he…it, been in captivity?”

 

Ruby takes the folder from Sam, “About sixteen months. I’m not certain why the owner has decided to sell, omegas only come on the market every few years, if then. This one was an oddity, though.”

 

“Oh?” Sam asks and tucks his hands under his arms to hide their tremor.

 

She makes a show of tapping her finger against her chin, looking at the ceiling as she talks,”the call came to this office and it was with some urgency. I remember that there was a limited window of opportunity to capture it and that we had to move fast if we wanted to take advantage of it.”

 

“And that is unusual?”

 

Ruby turns her gaze to him while her fingers do an odd little dance on her desk, “I can’t ever recall having been offered such an easy catch. In fact, I don’t think anybody has ever phone and given us exactly what is needed to complete a capture.”

 

Sam smiles, thin and tight, his fingers knotting into his shirt to keep still while his heart thunders against his rib cage.

 

“But this one is for sale?” He taps the picture of Cas.

 

Ruby nods.

 

“I want to see him first, if he’s damaged, as you say, I want to know what I’m buying.”

 

Ruby falls back in her chair and steeples her fingertips together.

 

“That will require some organization. I would need to ask the seller if he’ll permit your visit on his property.”

 

Sam forces himself to nod, “I can wait.”

 

 

When he comes back to his own cabin he moves straight to the fridge and grabs a bottle of beer, the strongest source of alcohol he has. He takes a big swing from the bottle, but the beer settles like sludge in his stomach. He reaches porch railing just in time for his stomach to rebel against the alcohol and the images in the folder. Sam wipes his tears with his sleeve and forces himself to drink several glasses of water until his mouth is free of the taste of bile and acid. His phone lies on the counter, a message from Dean blinking at him. It’s past three am and Sam decides that he can wait until morning to formulate his response to Dean.

 

Morning slinks in cold and gray with tendrils of mist and the scent of rain on the horizon. His bed is still unmade when Sam nurses a cup of coffee, trying to construct his reply to his brother. If he tells him he’s got a possible lead and that he’ll be heading that way soon, there’s no way he will be able to discourage his brother from coming. Dean won’t be able to keep calm and wait for them to formulate a plan, he’ll insist on going straight away, consequences be damned as long as Cas is free.

 

The thought of Dean barreling through the property of whoever bought him makes his stomach twist uncomfortable. It will end in bloodshed, possibly Dean’s.

 

In the end, he settles on telling his brother that he’s got a possible lead that he’ll check out in the bar to night. It’s vague enough that it will, hopefully, make Dean cool his heels. He watches the message tick away, and then his fingers find Bobby’s number and the gruff voice replies after only a couple rings.

 

“Yeah?”

 

“I’ve got a lead,” Sam says. He moves across the small cabin to peer through the curtains, not really sure what he’s expecting to find.

 

“I gathered as much from Charlie,” Bobby replies and Sam worries that Charlie might have already told Dean. It´s going to make Sam´s lie all that much worse.

 

“It was an entrance fee of sorts,” Sam murmurs, “to be permitted to look through their….catalogue,” his voice almost rebels at the last word, but Bobby makes no attempt to hide his disgust.

 

“You find him in there?”

 

“Yeah,” Sam sighs, “along with several others. Shit, this is some serious business, they got a whole system set up.”

 

Bobby mutters something under his breath and Sam catches the string of curses at the end of his sentence.

 

“This contact I met is taking me to the guy who’s selling Cas. After I’ve got some information on where he’s kept, we can formulate a plan. If Dean knows….shit,” Sam puts a hand over his eyes, shakes away the images that’s stirring in his mind, “ - but, Bobby,” Sam’s breath shakes as he tries to keep his voice from breaking, “Cas isn’t the only one who’s been kidnapped from his pack, we need to do something about this industry.”

 

“I know,” Bobby says calmly, “but let’s get our own back first, then we can worry about the rest of them.”

 

“Right,” Sam wipes his hand across his face, “it’s not like we can do this on our own at any rate, we’d need the help from the Gathering.”

 

Bobby makes a considering noise, “Sam, I’ll update your father and the rest. I don’t much like it, but I think you’re doing the right thing in keeping Dean on the sidelines for now. He won’t do Cas much good if he….you know…”

 

Goes feral, his mind supplies helpfully.

 

“Yeah,” Sam swallows, “I’m heading over to this guy’s place tonight, I’ll call you as soon as I know anything new.”

 

“You do that. And Sam,” there’s a brief pause on the other end, “be careful. I doubt these guys have any scruples about who they are killing.”

 

“I’ll be careful,” Sam promises, “ give my love to Jess,”. He thinks he hears Bobby rolling his eyes, “will do,” he grumbles before ending the call. There’s a new message from Dean waiting for him. Sam gathers his courage before he opens it and reads terse “okay.” He wonders if Dean will ever forgive him for putting him on the bench when his mate needed him the most.

 

Sam spends the rest of the day a bundle of jittery nerves. He tires, unsuccessfully, to catch up on some sleep, but his mind won’t give him respite from the uneasy feeling that’s building in his stomach. When a message finally does arrive from Ruby, telling him to meet at the front of the main building at ten p.m, his emotions are such a jumble he can’t tell one from the other.

 

Ruby is waiting for him, dressed in slim jeans and a dark blue coat that makes it look like she’s ready for a night out on town and it makes Sam worry that he’s underdressed for where ever they are going.

 

“Car is over here,” she says with a smile and Sam nods and ambles after her. It isn’t in fact, Ruby’s car, but a sleek, dark green Bentley that is waiting for them in the parking lot. The driver a gangly looking man who could be anywhere from sixteen to thirty. He nods to Ruby and ignores Sam, opening the backdoor for them before taking his place behind the wheel.

 

“You gotta wear this,” Ruby says as she fishes out a black scarf from her purse, “bosses’ order.”

 

“And you gotta hand me your phone and watch,” she says with an unapologetic smile.

 

Sam hands her his phone and watch and regards the blindfold for only a second before he nods and lets Ruby twirl it tight around his head, over his eyes, before fastening it. The scarf smells sweetly of some exotic flower and he wonders if it belongs to Ruby.

 

“Let’s go,” she tells the driver and Sam hears the smooth crunching of tires against gravel as the car begins its descent down the driveway.

 

He tries to pay attention to where they are going, the number of twists and turns the car takes, the faint sounds from the outside, pedestrian traffic, music from a bar or club, and other vehicles. Soon the sounds die off and he feels the car accelerates and as they turn onto the highway.  He thinks they might have driven for almost an hour before the car slows down and turns off the highway. The sounds of civilization tapers off and the car jolts and jostles down an uneven road for almost half an hour before the tires meet gravel again and the car slows down and comes to a halt.

 

Ruby opens the door and her scent disappears only to be replaced with the cold evening wind and a few splatters of rain against his face. He scoots across the seats and feels Ruby’s arm on his as she guides him out of the car and onto what must be somebody’s driveway.

 

“This way,” she says, her hand firmly on his as she drags him left. Fifty steps and his feet meets stones and he hears the sound of a gate being opened and closed. The wind brushes over tall trees, and when he extends his hand he feels the nettles of some thorny bush against his skin. He’s in a garden of sorts, he realizes and wishes that he had a Shifter’s sense of smells. He’d be able to identify the various flowers and plants in the garden, the distant thrum of an unfamiliar source.

 

They walk for several minutes before there’s a faint sound, like somebody pushing the buttons on a phone or an ATM machine. There’s a hiss and jolt and then he hears the sound of a metal scraping against the stones as they pass through another gate.

 

The smells hits him first, pungent and sharp and decidedly animal. He hears the sound of paws against concrete, the growls and sneers of wolves as he passes down what he believes is a row of cages. Is this where Cas has spent the last two years? Suddenly he’s glad for the blindfold hiding his expression.

 

“Can I take this off soon?” He asks, trying to sound annoyed.

 

“Sure thing,” Ruby says dismissingly. Sam yanks off the blindfold and for a second his vision dances in a hazy array of gray colors until his eyes adapt to the dim lights.

 

He realizes he’s standing in the middle of a private zoo. There are four large cages, each one containing a Shifter pacing restlessly from one end of the enclosure to the other. There’s a basket for them to sleep in, a couple of blows for feeding and at the back is a large shed-like-structure that emits a dim glow.

 

“The one you want is over here,” Ruby says and Sam swivels on his heel and stares into the Cas’s pale eyes.

 

He’s sitting on his haunches at the back of his cage, but when he catches’s Sam’s eyes he presses himself flat to the floor, his ears tilting back and forward, the muscles under his coat clenching and unclenching. He looks thin, is the first thing that strikes Sam, his fur is matt and dull, and there’s something odd with his eyes. They used to be this intense blue of the arctic, but now their colors have dimmed to milky tea.

 

(Cas,) Sam tries, throwing everything he can into the Link.

 

“As you can see, he’s in perfect health,” Ruby says.

 

“I do take care of my creatures,” an accented voice murmurs. Sam turns and tries not to drive his fist into the guy’s smug face. He’s clad in a three-piece suit and he’s cradling a glass of wine in one hand, a look of indifference as he regards Cas.

 

“This is Mr. Crowley,” Ruby says, digging her sharp elbow into Sam’s side as if he’s a misbehaving child. Sam swallows around the lump in his throat and offers Crowley his hand. The guy shakes it, his grip as sharp as his smile.

 

“You’re mister Tyler, hm?”

 

“Yes,” Sam says and yanks his hand free from Crowley’s grip. He flexes his hands once, twice, before he feels comfortable accepting the glass of wine he’s being offered.

 

“And you’re interested in the omega,” Crowley gesture with his glass to Cas. Sam nods, hiding his expression behind the rim of his glass as he takes a small sip.

 

“Why are you selling him?”

 

Crowley shrugs a little, “he’s serves his purpose and I fear he’s damaged goods now.”

 

“Oh?”

 

“He was….misbehaving,” Crowley says and takes a long, slow drink from his wine, “so we put a silver collar on him.”

 

“A silver collar?” Sam’s voice is controlled to the last consonant, even as the sound of his blood is thundering in his ears.

 

“We took it off after a couple of months, and then he just didn’t shift back.”

 

Sam looks back at Cas, dread pooling into a solid mass in his chest. Several months in a silver collar, Cas wouldn’t have been able to Shift into his human form and he’s far from his Pack and without a Link.

 

He´s been without a Link for months.

 

“This one’s all beast,” Crowley says with a mocking edge to his voice, “but there’s still the novelty of him having been a man, once.”


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don´t think there are any triggers here that haven´t been warned of in the tags.
> 
> Thank you for sticking with me in this writing experiment.
> 
> This chapter is not beta read.

**Chapter fifteen.**

 

Cas circles the length of his cage, his ears pressed flat against his head, back curled and tail tucked between his legs, caught in a conflicting emotion of submissive behavior and an uncertain threat. Sam tries not to be too obvious in his staring, but he’s desperate to find even an ounce of evidence that would prove Crowley’s assessment wrong.

 

(Cas, Cas, it’s me, Sam.)

 

The only sound he hears is Cas’s claws clicking against the concrete ground and the heavy panting of his breath. Cas trots the length of the cage, turns and starts his pacing anew, each motion agitated, frightened. There’s slight limp to his to his gait, Sam realizes, it’s barely noticeable, but he’s avoiding putting weight on his right hind leg.

 

Sam clears his throat, aware of the pressure of Ruby and Crowley’s assessing eyes on him. He’s supposed to be an interested buyer pretending he isn´t here canvas this place so they can figure out how to rescue Cas.

 

“The price seems a bit steep,” Sam tries carefully, “considering that he’s…..it is damaged goods. There’s hardly proof that he was…that it’s a Shifter and not just an animal.”

 

Crowley takes a slow sip of his wine, his eyes following Sam from behind the rim of the glass.

 

“There’s documentation,” Crowly assures him, “and DNA evidence, you can also try some silver on it, see how it reacts. We’ve had to use sterling silver in the bars, the locks, and the key, just to be on the safe side.”

 

Sam turns to regard the cages to hide the sour twist of his lips. Shit. This is going to complicate their plans. Sam cranes his neck and lets his gaze trail around the enclosures. There are several surveillance cameras mounted along the walls a heavy thrum that suggests the fence he passed earlier might be electrical.

 

To his left are three other cages. The largest one contains a pair of gray wolves, standing shoulder to shoulder in the far corner of their cage. Going by their size alone, probably a male and a female, and Sam wonders if they are a pair or siblings. Their eyes are sharp and green, and they watch the exchange between Sam and Crowley with a predatory gleam, ears flat and lips curled back far enough to give a hint of teeth. Shifters, Sam thinks, still very much in control of their human and wolf halves.

 

In the cage next to them is a large, black Shifter, her coat gleaming in the dull light and brown eyes wide and alert. She standing in the middle of her cage, tail erect and ears tilting back and forward. She is also is watching the exchange between the three humans in a way that suggests that she’s calculating her odds of escape and trying to determine how Sam might fit in.

 

Curled up in a corner in the last cave, is a red Shifter, his tail tucked under his head and large, worried eyes trailing Cas’s restless gait around and around in his cage.

 

Sam tries a tentative Link with the four captives, probes gently at their minds, a polite and submissive request for access. He sees the moment they realize what he’s doing, feels their pain and anger pulse through the Link with such force it is an effort to keep smiling at Crowley.

 

(Who are you?)

 

(A human, how is this possible!)

 

(What do you want, are you here to save us?)

 

(Yes,) Sam assures them, (just be quiet and let me focus.)

 

“Is all this security really necessary?” Sam asks, “they are just animals, aren’t they?”

 

Crowley tuts and taps the side of his nose as if he’s about to part with some great secret. Ruby frowns, ducking her head and raising her shoulders almost to her ears, hiding her expression.  Sam doesn’t have the luxury of time to study Ruby’s strange demeanor because Crowley demands his attention.

 

“They are far from simple creatures, Mr. Tyler. They have a human mind, and it is just as cruel and clever as your average human. They will watch you, study your every move, searching for a weakness, a gap in your defense. All of these beasts,” Crowley makes a sweeping gesture to the other cages. The Shifters curl their backs, ears pressed to their heads and a growl rumbling through their bodies, “have tried, and failed, to escape.”

 

“Is that how it got injured?” Sam nods his head towards Cas.

 

“Hmhm,” Crowley makes an assessing noise and finishes off the last of his wine, “an escape attempt a few weeks after it was captured. It got as far as the outer walls before he was subdued.”

 

“It’s a rather steep price,” Sam forces himself to say, “for a Shifter who can’t Shift, and who’s got a limp. Hardly worth what you’re asking.”

 

“This one has a very distinctive coloring,” Ruby says, almost sounding as if she’s rising to Cas’s defense as much as Crowley’s, “the black across its back and the smooth transition between the colors to the silver makes for a very exquisite pelt. There’s no damage to the fur, it has never had lice or any other sort of infestation that might reduce the quality, you can see the shine in it yourself.”

 

Sam swallows around the lump in his throat,  “if you add in the expenses of curing the pelt, it hardly-”

 

“Oh, we can do that,” Crowley interjects smoothly, “at no additional costs. We have the premises set up for it right here.”

 

A loud growl intercedes Ruby’s response. The smaller Shifter with the red coat has come as close to the bars on his cage as he dares. He’s standing on all four, head slightly lowered, ears turned towards Sam, eyes narrow and a dangerous rumble in his throat.

 

(Stay away from Castiel.)

 

(I am just trying to keep him talking. Cas is my family, I’ve come to rescue him, to rescue all of you.)

 

“I want it alive,” Sam hurries to explain “besides anyone can get a nice pelt.”

 

“Hmhm,” Crowley says and stares forlornly into his empty wine glass. Ruby, however, has turned her attention to the red Shifter with a controlled smile that doesn’t even reach the corner’s of her mouth. For one terrifying moment, Sam wonders if she has actually heard their exchange.

 

“I have an additional buyer,” Crowley says, prompting Sam to tear his attention away from Ruby again, “he’s interested in the potential breeding qualities in this Omega.”

 

Sam curls his hands into fists, clenching them so hard he can feel his nails digging into his skin. He works past the bile in his throat and forces himself say, “there’s never been successful….it’s never been accomplished with Shifters in captivity.”

 

“That is true,” Crowley concedes, “but I do not think it’s been attempted with an Omega who has….converted to the animal side, so to speak.”

 

“I….” Sam starts, his voice faltering as a deep, probing voice barrels past his defenses.

 

(You can’t seem too eager.)

 

Sam stretches his answer through a thin smile and steals a glance at the black Shifter. She´s sitting on her haunches now, head slightly lowered as to give the illusion of a calm creature, but Sam feels her pent up anger leeching through the Link.

 

"You don´t believe it´s possible," Sam says, watching Crowley´s reaction, feeling vindicated at the slight tilt of his head, "or you´d have kept it for your own breeding program."

 

"True," Crowley says, "keeping a pregnant creature healthy is ridiculously expensive at any rate."

 

“How much is he willing to give?” Sam unclenches his fists, stretches his fingers until he feels confident enough in their mobility.

 

“The asking price,” Ruby says, “but he’s not willing to collect it until early next spring. He wants to be certain of its reproduction abilities before he’s willing to pay.”

 

Mating season. Sam buries his disgust under another fake smile, the one Steven Tyler might use to  pave his way into a beneficial arrangement.

 

“I can pay next week,” Sam shrugs, “I need time to arrange its habitat and transportation.”

 

Crowley and Ruby share a calculating look that Sam doesn’t really know how to interpret. Do they believe him or are they quietly planning how to prevent him from leaving here alive and how to cover his trail at Crossroad Houses?

 

“I’ll need to present the counter offer to the other buyer,” Crowley says, “Ruby will contact you in, say, three days with my final offer.”

 

(You should take this out and leave) the black Shifter says.

 

“Acceptable,” Sam says.

 

He doesn’t dare another glance at the other Shifters, but he knows they are watching him as Ruby ties the scarf around his eyes again and hooks her arm around his. He can hear Crowley’s steps disappearing down the stone path, probably towards the main building. He can hear the   roll of the Shifter’s growl as Ruby leads him past their cages.

 

(I´ll be back,) Sam assures them, (in three days.)

 

Sam traces his steps down the footway through the garden. He hears the familiar ping of the code being entered into the keypad and the scraping of metal as the gate is pulled open.

 

“Wait here,” Ruby says, “I’m going to fetch the driver.”

 

Her steps disappear across the gravel. Sam shifts his weight from one foot to the other and tries to recognize the sound of another human being present. There could be a guard standing by the door, there are probably surveillance cameras watching him. He scuffs his shoes against the gravel, rolls his shoulders, lets his body fall into the rhythm of a restless Steven Tyler, bored of these theatrics. He scratches the back of his left ankle with his right foot until he feels the snap of the collar and the quiet thud of the GPS device falling onto the gravel. He shuffles his feet, hopes he’s kicking it into the bushes.

 

The journey back to Crossroad Houses is an exercise in agony. He tries to keep his mind clear and alert, aware that Ruby might be suspicious of his act, that somebody might have seen him hiding the tracking device in the bushes. Every turn of the car feels like it might be his last and he just waits for the sound of tires leaving the main road, the sensation of sand or dirt under the wheels as they turn onto a deserted patch of road. The press of metal against his throat or his temple. The click of a gun.

 

But the memory of Cas limping around and around in the cage presses against his mind until it feels like Cas is walking around in his head. How is he going to tell his brother that, even though his Mate is alive, he’s not….he’s not human anymore? There’s stories of Shifters having being able to wrestle back control of their human mind after a few days without a Link, but he’s never heard of anybody recovering from being lost for months. It had taken only three days for their mother to lose herself to the animal’s instincts.

 

Sam lets his head fall back against the headrest and closes his eyes, despite the black confines of the scarf around his head. This is going to destroy Dean.

 

The driver doesn't pull off to a hidden path along the road and Ruby doesn’t pull a knife or a gun on him. Sam soon recognizes the sounds of the city they passed through on their way to Crowley’s place, the music still going despite the early hours of the morning. A while later, he hears the crunch of stones under the tires and then the car comes to a stop. The door opens and Ruby exists, this time leaving Sam to fumble his way out alone.

 

“May I take it off now?” Sam asks.

 

“Sure.”

 

Sam unties the scarf and blinks the world back into existence. They are in the parking lot of Crossroad Houses, the light from the main building muted against the first tendrils of dawn creeping over the horizon. 

 

“You’ll contact me then, with Crowley’s final offer?”

 

“In three days,” Ruby promises. She accepts the scarf from Sam’s offered hand and tucks it into her purse.

 

“Right, then.” Sam stuffs his hands into his pockets, “I will see you then.”

 

He waits for a moment for her reply and when it comes, it’s a muted nod that does nothing to fill Sam with confidence. Is she really going to call him, or is she planning his demise?

 

He walks with trepidation towards his cottage, half expecting an assassin to tackle him. But the only people he meets are early morning hikers and an enthusiastic couple with a pair of fishing rods. Even so, Sam is careful when he unlocks the door to his cabin and doesn’t allow himself to rest until he’s checked every possible hiding spot in the tiny cottage and bolted the doors and windows.

 

He turns on his phone and is immediately overrun with messages from Dean. Fifteen texts and almost twice as many calls. He ignores them all and flicks through his screen until he finds the app for the tracking device. Relief floods through his system when the map zooms in on the little blue dot and he hurries to write down the address and take a screenshot of the map. Sam allows himself a few seconds to experience the peaceful throb of the adrenaline line ebbing away and the return of the steady beat of his heart. They know where Cas is.

 

His fingers have already picked out Dean’s phone number when, for the second time this day, his instincts warns him of the immediate danger that lies down his chosen path. If Sam tells Dean where his mate is, there is nothing that will stop Dean from rushing over and tearing through the place until he’s secured Cas’s freedom or got himself killed in the process. Sam thinks of the silver bars, the high fences and the many security cameras all over the place. The latter seems the most probable outcome.

 

The phone suddenly weighs a ton when he realize that he’ll have to lie to Dean, again. He practices his lies in his head a couple of times, picks, and shapes the sentences until he’s certain Dean won’t be able to pull them apart.

 

Dean answers on the first ring, a ragged “what the hell, Sammy, where have you been?” That almost ruins Sam’s resolve.

 

“I was in a meeting, Dean.”

 

“A meeting, what kind of meeting?” Dean’s hope is palpable in each syllable and Sam steels himself for his deception.

 

“I think I have an inkling of where Cas might be kept, but we’ll need to gather the rest of the-”

 

“Where! Where is he, Sam?” Dean’s voice cracks and Sam can easily picture him pacing restlessly through his motel room, going around in a circle, just like Cas had in his cage.

 

“I’m not sure, yet,” he hurries to add, “I’m sorta…I need to get approved by these people, but she’s going to contact me in two days.”

 

“Who? The person who has Cas?” The deadly threat lingering at the end of the sentence makes Sam almost feel bad for Ruby.

 

“She works here, one of the staff with the tattoo, Dean-” Sam lowers his voice, “you need to stay put, if you come over, if she gets suspicious, she might call the whole thing off.”

 

“Shit,” Dean breathes, wet and ragged, “shit, okay. Two days?”

 

“Two days,” Sam assures, “and when we know where he is, we can make a plan for how to get him out.”

 

“Yeah, allright…yeah.”

 

Dean has stopped pacing, but his breath is still labored with an uneven hitch that makes Sam worry that Dean might actually be close to a panic attack.

 

“Dean…”

 

“You sure he’s alive, Sam? What if she thinks you are looking for another omega, what if-”

 

“No, I-” Sam pauses, wets his lips, “I saw a picture of him, Dean. In a catalog. It’s him, and he’s alive.”

 

There’s a noise on the other end, something between a nervous laugh, a growl or maybe even a sob.

 

“I’ll have more information in a couple of days, Dean,” Sam says softly, “we’ll get him home soon.”

 

“Yeah, yeah, it’s….yeah. Two days.”

 

“I’ll call again as soon as I know something, just tell dad, Bobby and Charlie to get here, we might need their help.”

 

“Yeah, sure, I’ll call right away.”

 

“Good bye, Dean.”

 

“Bye, Sam.”

 

Sam finishes the call but stands for a long time staring at his phone, before he dials Charlie’s number. She’ll need to figure out everything she can on Crowley, his property and how to possibly pass by his security system. Then he’ll need to ask John how they’re going to manage to rescue Cas when he’s not only trapped in a silver cage, but in the mind of his wolf. He can work towards Dean’s forgiveness later.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The rescue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter fought me through every word, comma and dialogue. It´s not as good as I want it to be, but I felt it was all I could get out of hands and heart. 
> 
> Thanks for sticking with me and giving me your encouragement.

**Chapter sixteen.**

 

Bobby, John, and Charlie arrive just after eight the next evening. After spending hours prowling the tiny confines of his motel room, and trying to reach Sam, Dean feels an immeasurable amount of relief knowing that his pack is here. His Link with each of them comes alive, bringing with it the knowledge of safety and strength in numbers. It settles his restless animal, 

John gives Dean a meek pat on the shoulder. Bobby grunts something about the necessity for beer and Charlie excuses herself with the desperate need to wash the stink of the journey off her skin. They aren’t only carrying the smell of hours confined in a car, their anxiousness is palpable on the air and makes the skin on Dean’s arm prickle.

Even though Shifters will travel for miles to reach the Gathering, it is the only occasion when they feel comfortable with leaving their Territory. Dwindling numbers and decades of feuding have forced Shifters to abandon their nomadic life style for a permanent settlement in government appointed areas.

At first Dean assumes their unease is due to being in an unfamiliar place and the probable consequences if they are caught. If they are lucky, they will be given a hefty fine and ordered to return home. But Dean knows that all of them put their lives at risk when they left their collars at home and came to his aid. 

He shows them around the motel. Points out the one decent place he’d found for a cup of coffee and cheap breakfast and tells them everything Sam has told him about Cas. It isn’t much, but John doesn’t hassle him for details. Bobby only grunts and Charlie keeps her eyes on the laptop.

Afterwards, they’d separated for the night. John and Bobby finds a room next to Dean’s. Charlie’s room is just across the parking lot. 

Dean listens to the prowling feet of his father on the other side of the thin motel walls. He hears the sound of the shower. The grudging exchange of two men who think they are far too old to for measly motel beds and a quick argument about who is going to sleep on the floor. Bobby wins that discussion. It’s the last exchange Dean hears before he’s dragged into an exhausted sleep lulled by the quiet vibration of his dad’s voice and the calming presence of his Alpha.

Next morning, his calmness has evaporated and he is certain that something must be wrong. It’s not just that conversations tends to wilt as soon as he enters the room or that Charlie’s knee keeps bouncing against the table while she works on her computer. That Bobby is constantly scratching his chin or his dad’s jerky movement when he fishes out a cigarette. It´s the way none of them met his eyes. Sam won’t even answer his calls, preferring to communicate with John or even Charlie. And every time Sam hangs up, the trio share a look that squeezes something in Dean’s chest and makes his heart skip a beat. Their agitated scent cloys the room and sets the wolf on edge. It prowls in his mind, searching for the Bond and the Link to its mate, coming up empty every time. 

 

Their secret must have something to do with Cas. Maybe he’s in a bad state and they don’t want to upset him. Images of Cas collared and leashed and shown around as someone’s prized pet swim before his eyes until he thinks he might actually throw up. 

Maybe they’ve figured out that it’s going to be impossible to rescue him. That he’s kept in another country or that they don’t know where he is. Maybe, a dark voice tells him, he’s some taxidermist have gotten their filthy hands on him and Sam just hasn’t figured out a way to tell Dean….

…No. 

Sam had told Dean that Cas was alive. There’s no way he’d lie about that.

So what aren’t they telling him?

Later that evening John gathers them around the table covered by a massive map and held in place by four cans of beer.

“Sam told me that Cas is held on a large property a couple of miles outside of town, here,” John taps the map and Dean feels his heart skip in rhythm with the finger. Cas is just an hour away from him.

“There’s pretty high tech security in place. Surveillance camera, fences, silver bars. The….kennel,” he scowls at the last word, “are kept close to the main property. Sneaking in is going to be difficult.”

“So, what is the plan?” Dean grips the edge of the table, uses it to tether himself in place so that he doesn’t let the wolf rush them out the door.

“Well, Charlie here seems to think she can do something about the cameras and Sam says he has found a backdoor.”

“I only know the theory,” Charlie bites her lower lip, “but I think that if I can get access to their system, I should be able to disable them. We only need those trained on the kennel, taking them all out would be too suspicious.”

“And then what, we jump the fence and-” Dean’s fingers turn white.

“No,” John shakes his head, “I’m thinking something a little more drastic. The nearest fire station is fifteen minutes away.”

“We’re torching the place,” Bobby grunts, “should give us enough time to get them out.”

“Sam said that there are four other Shifters held there.”

“Right,” Dean says, common sense struggling to swim to the surface. Of course Cas isn’t the only Shifter who has been kidnapped. There is an entire, professional industry devoted to this.

“Setting the place on fire, you think that’s gonna be enough?”

“Don’t see why we need to make it complicated,” Bobby shrugs, “we might need Sam to open the cages.”

“So…” Dean glances around the table. Charlie ducks her head, fingers running across her computer screen. John grabs a bottle of beer and Bobby folds his arm, stares at the map.

“That’s it. We leave at two, Sam will meet us there.”

“Seems to be,” Charlie murmurs.

“Alright, I’ll…just, go and get ready.”

There is a visible dent in the table when Dean leaves. The wolf pulls at his mind. Leave, it demands. We should go now. Our mate needs us. He’s waited too long. Dean takes a deep breath and shoves the voice away. He doesn’t need the reminder.

 

 

A few minutes past two am they leave the motel, using Bobby’s old car. Dean and Charlie are sitting in the back seat, Charlie with her face pressed against the window, eyes closed and hands firmly around her laptop. They drive without using headlines and avoiding all the major roads when possible.  For Dean, the drive lasts an eternity. His stomach rolls in nauseating waves. His fingers tapping a restless beat against the car seat in front of him and it’s a testament to how uneasy his dad is that he doesn’t tell Dean to cut it out. 

An hour later, Bobby pulls off the main road and down a narrow, gravelly path that makes the entire car shake. 

“That’s Sam,” Charlie says and Dean squints over his dad’s shoulder. He can just make out his brother’s tall and lanky figure in the darkness. He’s leaning against their car, hands in his pocket and eyes on his shoes.

The car pulls to a halt and Dean hurries out, followed by Charlie. The air is cold and sharp, electric with the taste of rain and storm.

They go through the procedure of a manly greeting: shaking hands, slapping shoulders while they mutter strings of pleasantries. 

“The house is on the other side of these woods,” Sam explains, “ten minute walk or something. How close do you need to be, Charlie, to gain access to their system?”

“As close as possible,” she tightens the grip on her computer bag, “I might only be able to knock them out long enough to get the power going. Depending on their level of security, they might put two-and-two together and realize it´s an attack.”

“We only need a few minutes,” John assures her, “let´s get going.”

The house, when they reach it, is more a mansion than anything else. It´s a luxurious structure sprawling over several hundred acres including swimming pools and two tennis courts. The kennel is at the far back of the property, hidden enough to remain inconspicuous from prying eyes. Dean’s nose wrinkles against the barrage of data. The scent of wolves. Shifters. Alpha. Omega. Fodder. Sweat and some sweet, prickly perfume he cannot place. He tries to pick out Cas’s scent, but his human nose isn’t equipped to distinguish it from all the others.

 

“There’s a short cut from the main entrance,” Sam explains, “you go through a garden of sorts and past an iron gate, but I found this backdoor when I scouted the place earlier.”

Charlie crouches down next to a tree and pulls out her laptop. It casts an eerie glow on her face as her fingers skitter across the keyboard.

“I think I know what to do,” she breathes, ”there’s only two cameras marked kennels, and one seemed trained on that main entrance Sam mentioned.”

“Guess I’ll move into position. Wait five minutes.” John mutters and before Dean can say anything like “be careful” or “watch your back,” John slinks off between the shadows.

It’s the longest five minutes of Dean’s life. He knits his fingers together, twisting them until pain sings in his limbs. Charlie’s hands never leave the keyboard. A second later Dean taste smoke on the cold air. They wait. Minutes tick by and suddenly flames are licking along the walls and the sound of a fire alarm shatters the silence.

The next few minutes passes in a blur. They hurry towards the back gate, crouching so low that Dean can feel the tall grass against his chin. Charlie uses a knife to flip off the cover of the keypad and then she does something complicated to the wires that make the door slide open. They emerge between a couple of sheds, but a few steps brings them into the middle of a courtyard between four large cages. 

There’s a tall, dark-skinned women in one of them, dressed in a pair of dirty jeans a blue t-shirt. Her tattered clothes do little to hide the muscles moving under her skin or the vicious gleam in her eyes. Alpha, Dean realizes. She doesn’t seem surprised to see them and Sam wastes no time hurrying over to her cage prying it open with a crow bar. The woman hops out, tossing her hair over her shoulder. 

“Thanks,” she smiles, thighs and sharp, “where’s the bastards?”

“The exit is over there,” Charlie points to the sheds, “as for your real question, they could be in the main building.”

The woman’s smile grows teeth and she spins on her heels and jogs down the path, shedding her shirt and jeans in the process and leaping into her shift.

“You should-” Charlie tries, but the woman is already gone. 

Sam has already moved over to the next cage, containing a skinny looking youth with mousy brown hair and large, terrified eyes. He’s in a similar state of undress, but where she had strolled out of her cage, this guy has to be coaxed out by Sam.

“We’re the rescue operation,” Charlie smiles. Dean can see how she tries to insert some confidence into her smile. The guy stares at her, arms wrapped around his waist and legs trembling. 

“Take care of him, Charlie,” Bobby demands and Charlie walks over, carefully wrapping an arm around his skinny shoulders.

“This way, what’s your name?”

The guy mumbles something Dean doesn’t catch, but he lets Charlie lead him across the courtyard and past the sheds. By the time Dean has managed to pull his gaze away from him, Sam has already freed the couple in the third cage. It´s a man and a woman, standing side by side with shoulder length blonde hair and keen, green eyes. The guy is clinging onto the woman, his twin sister, judging by their shared appearance. Despite their ragged clothes, they look like they belong on the cover of a magazine.

“I didn’t really believe you when you said you were coming back,” the girl murmurs. 

 

Sam forces a smile and gestures for them to follow Bobby.  They wobble past Dean with a tired, hopeful smile, bobbing their heads in gratitude. But Dean’s attention is glued to the last cage and the wolf inside it.

He feels like he’s being suspended by hundreds of fishhooks into his skin, until he’s suffocating by his own weight. He makes his leg work long enough to stagger towards the cage. Cas is watching him, pale eyes glinting in the light. He crouches backwards, ears pressed flat to his head, a low growl curling through his body.

“Dean, don’t touch the bars, there is silver in them.” Sam’s voice is a distant thing, but it’s enough of a warning to let his instincts take over, and he digs his nails into his palms instead.

(Cas!)

He throws everything he has into the Link, but it is like slamming his head into a brick wall. The pain echo through the Bond until the only thing Dean hears is the static of white noise.

“Dean, don’t….” Sam’s voice peters off and Dean half wonders what he’s not suppose to do. Rip through the throat of the monsters that took Cas from him and locked him up and trapped him in his own head? Is he not supposed to be angry with Sam for keeping this from him? Is he suppose to stay calm and think reasonably when he doesn’t think he will ever be able to draw a proper breath.

Cas is limping, a distressed trot along the length of the cage. Back and fort. Back and forth. Head held low, tail tucked between his legs and ears tilting this way and that, trying to pick out the sound of the most immediate threat.

“Did you know?” Dean spins around and grabs a fist full of Sam’s jacket and slams him up against Cas’s cage so hard that the bars rattle. Cas yelps and stumbles over his own legs in his hurry to escape to the far corner of the cage.

“Yes,” Sam says, “and I didn’t tell you because I worried you’d do something stupid if you knew.”

Dean’s response is a growl low in his throat, his arm presses against Sam’s chest until he’s pinned between Dean and the bars. Sam hisses in pain and tries to free his arms and to give himself some leverage against his brother. Dean leans forward until his face is inches from Sam’s.

“You said he was unharmed,” his voice clipped with anger.

“Let him go Dean,” a distant voice says. Somebody grabs his arm, tries to yank him away, but the wolf will not let them. “We only have a few more minutes.”

“Dean,” Sam’s voice is low and tight, “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, but-”

“Stop it, Dean, we’re running out of time.”

“But what? You needed me to keep my cool, is that it?”

“Yes,” Sam snarls. His response triggers something deep and dark in Dean’s chest and his hand moves from Sam’s chest to wrap around his throat. He can feel the shift of bone and muscles under his skin, feel the power coiled like a spring in his grip. It wouldn’t take much pressure to squeeze the life out of him.

“Dean!”

“Dean, let me- Dean, you’re changing.” He catches the icy shimmer of fear in Sam’s eyes and it’s like gasoline to the fire raging in his chest. Sam told him his mate was fine, Sam had known for days where Cas was being kept and lied to Dean about it. Dean could have come to Cas’s rescue days ago, instead he’s been dawdling in his motel room. He should have rescued Cas months ago and not be content with the explanation that Cas might just have wandered off. Like their mother had.

The realization gnaws at him until he feels the hollow ache where their Bond should have been and the only voice is the one telling Dean that this isn’t Sam’s fault, not really. It’s all his. The wolf’s anger coils along his spine and makes itself at home in his mind. Cas whines and presses himself further into the corner, claws scraping over the concrete.

“Dean,” Sam has freed his hands and wrapped them around the wise of Dean’s grip on his throat. There are claws against his skin and Dean sees the tiny tendrils of blood weaving through Sam’s scents. He just has the time to recognize another familiar smell coming closer before there’s a sharp prick against his neck. Colors dance before his eyes and he’s fighting the tide trying to pull him away.

John catches him as he slumps backwards and lowers him to the ground.

“Shit,” Sam coughs and rubs at the bruise blossoming over his skin, his fingers come away bloody.

 

“Are you alright?” John asks. Sam takes a deep breath, coughs a little, just to make sure his airways are clear.

“Yeah…what did you do to Dean?”

“Sedative,” John grunts, “Bobby recommended it.” He glances at his watch and curses. “We need to get out of here.”

“Right,” Sam swallows and grimaces in pain. He turns away from his brother and to Cas’s cage. Cas squeezed into the corner. His ears pressed flat, lips curled back in a snarl, tail between his legs. He’s given up the effort to try and find an alternative escape route and has opted for a fight to the end.

“We should probably give some to Cas too, or we’re not going to get him out of there unscathed.”

John gives Cas a sceptical look. He takes a moment to form the words in his head before he allows them out of his mouth.

“Maybe we should just open the cage and let him go.”

Sam spins around on his heel, “what? He’s hurt dad, he won’t be able to fend for himself.”

“He’s not….he’s an animal now, Sam. You want to take him back to the Territory, and what? Keep him on a leash? Lock him in a cave? Train him to herd your sheep?” The last word is said with a snort that makes Sam flinch, “how’s Dean going to handle that?”

“How’s Dean going to react when he wakes up and you tell him you left Cas to fend for himself?”

John presses his lips to a thin line, but for once he doesn’t have a clever reply for Sam. They’ve just seen Dean inches from changing. He could have seriously injured Sam. In his rage, he might even have lost what little control he maintained and killed him.

“Cas and Dean are meant to be together.”

John sighs, “I don’t want to hear this nonsense of true mates, Sam.”

Fine, Sam thinks. Then we’ll fight dirty, “wouldn’t you have done everything possible to try and get mom back if you got the chance.”

John’s eyes narrow to two dangerous slits and the growl running through his body is the last warning Sam will get. Sam knows he’s walking on black ice and takes a deep breath to stifle his next. They’ll never get anywhere if neither of one can cool their heels. They are on a time limit and Sam knows from experience that his father is more likely to listen to reason if Sam can just keep calm.

“He’s been without a Link for months. There’s never been a successful return after such a long time, there’s no precedent, no lore, nothing.”

“There’s a chance,” Sam says, “even if it is a tiny one.”

The frown on John’s face smooth and his shoulders slump. He looks from Sam to Cas. He remembers the omega who came to Dean’s rescue and chased Alistair, an alpha twice his size, into the woods. Cas had made Dean happy in a way nobody else could, and his disappearance had almost cost John his oldest son. 

“Bobby has a tranquilizer gun,” John sighs, “it’s probably safer than trying to inject him with a needle.”

Sam grits his teeth and nods, “I will go and get it.”

He returns with the gun and a grim expression. Cas growls at him, staring straight at the barrel even as Sam cocks it.

“Sorry,” he whispers and pulls the trigger.

 


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The draft for this chapter was the first thing I wrote for this story and today I just had to write to rest of it and share it with you. It´s a little trippy, but I hope you will like it.
> 
> Warning for some minor violence.

**Chapter seventeen.**

 

Dean wakes in stages, his body aching in a way he hasn’t felt since the first time he Shifted. He’s lying on a soft surface and the room smells faintly musty like it hasn’t been used in a while. He rises slowly, lifting a hand to his face and grimacing. His mouth feels like he’s swallowed sand. It takes more effort than it should to open his eyes and the room tilts unpleasantly as bright light assaults him. Dean squeezes his eyes shut.

 

“Sorry, let me close the curtains,” a voice says to his left. Dean keeps his eyes closed until the warmth of the sun disappears.

 

“That’s better. How are you feeling? What do you remember?”

 

Dean goes through his list of memories. It’s surprisingly short and what he does remember is hazy, like something heard his parents talk about when he wasn’t supposed to listen in. He thinks he remembers smoke, the smell of blood, the screaming agony in his head. He opens his eyes and his swims and the more he tries to reassemble the pieces together, the more his head throbs with pain. When he slides a hand along his neck he feels a small bump, like a mosquito bite.

 

“Water,” he croaks, closing his eyes again as nausea and vertigo rams into him with such force he doubles over. Footsteps hurry away and a few minutes later a cool glass is pressed into his hands.

 

“Don’t drink too fast,” the voice warns as Dean tilts his head back and sips. The liquid soothes the dry patches in his throat.

 

“Better?”

 

He blinks Jesse’s worried face into clarity.

 

“Yeah,” he swallows and takes a moment to pick out his surroundings. The shelves are still there, but the books are gone, packed down in boxes that sit in Sam’s loft. The strange pictures that Cas collected are also missing and Dean picks through his memory to try and remember where they ended up. Did somebody pack them down, or were they thrown out along with Cas’s miss matching furniture? Even without these objects, Dean recognizes his old living room and the sofa he’s sitting on.

 

“John made some arrangement with the new owners,” Jesse murmurs to Dean’s silent question, “they haven’t changed much of the house and well, we thought familiar surroundings would help-”

 

“Cas!”

 

The memory of Cas brings him to full consciousness with disorienting speed. Dean leaps from the sofa but his feet aren’t cooperating  and he stumbles into Jesse’s arm. She doesn’t manage to adjust their weight quickly enough and both of them stumble backward into the bookshelf. Jesse hisses in pain.

 

“Shit!”

 

Suddenly Sam is there, grabbing Dean’s arm and pulling him away. His hands on Jesse is more tender, cupping her cheek and running his hands over the back of her head, searching for injuries.

 

“I’m fine,” she grimaces, “just knocked my head a little.”

 

“I can’t feel a lump,” Sam says, pressing a kiss to her forehead, before turning to his brother. But Dean’s voice is coming from down the corridor where he is arguing with their dad.

 

“Do you need…”

 

“Just go,” Jesse smiles, “I’ll fix us some coffee. I think we’ll need it.”

 

Sam smiles and caresses her cheek, “Thanks. When is the Healer suppose to arrive?”

 

“Any time now,” Jesse brushes her hair away from her eyes, “I’ll call you when she’s here.”

 

Dean’s memory returns to him in unpleasant drips. Cas limping around in his cage. The way he whined in fear when Dean approached. His eyes, pale and empty without a trace of recognition in them. Cas was gone and the only thing in that cage had been an animal.

 

“Where is he dad, where’s my mate?”

 

John studies his son with a frown. He recognizes the same wild panic in his eyes from the first day Cas disappeared and he takes a moment to be grateful that Sam persuade him to bring Cas home. It’s the only way to keep Dean staying.

 

“He’s in your old bedroom,” John murmurs and places a hand on Dean’s shoulders. Muscles jump and tenses under his grip and John gives him a reassuring squeeze. It does nothing to still the tremor in Dean. “We thought that maybe the familiar scent would calm him-” John pauses takes a deep breath.

 

“He woke a few hours,” John says, tightening the grip, just enough to keep Dean from running through the door.

 

“Dean, that…that isn’t Cas, not really, not anymore.”

 

Dean pries himself free of his father’s grip. He takes the four steps to the bedroom door. Stops. He trails his fingers over the smooth white paint, his hand finding the way to the door knob on its own accord. He presses his forehead to the door, holds his breath to still the thundering beating of his own heart. He hears sounds on the other side, paws moving restlessly across the room. Panting. Soft whine. The sound of it tugs at something deep in him. Dean closes his mind and lets the Bond reach out. It is like trying to carry water in his hands, as soon as he feels a connection, it slips through his fingers.

 

“Dean,” John’s voice is oddly hollow and his touch on Dean’s shoulder is careful this time, tender in a way it hasn’t since Dean was a child and their mom left.

 

“I know you want to see him, but he might- I mean, Cas doesn’t want to hurt you. Can’t you wait until the Healer gets here and listen to what she has to say.”

 

“Healer?” Dean croaks.

 

“Pamela Barns,” John adds, “she’s from the neighboring Territory, but she’s agreed to come and…and try to help,” he says cautiously. He doesn’t want to give Dean too much hope.

 

“Yeah,” Dean swallows around the lump in his throat, “yeah, alright. I will wait.”

 

If she tells him that Cas can’t be saved he’ll…..he doesn’t know what he’ll do. He just knows that he won’t give up on Cas. Not again.

 

 

Pamela Barns arrives twenty minutes later. She’s a tall woman, her hair gathered in a bun at the nape of her neck and she carries herself with an easy lift to her shoulders that speaks of agility and speed. She’s sitting at their kitchen table, hands wrapped around a cup of coffee as she listens to Sam explaining Castiel’s predicament. Dean sits next to him, his heart trying to claw its way out of his throat. Castiel injured his leg trying to escape and later they put a silver collar on him and made him wear it for months.

 

Pamela’s face goes through a wide array of emotions and makes Sam repeat some of his information. It finally settles on somewhere between apologetic and anger. Anger for the shifters caught by Crossroad’s business. Apologetic for what she’s about to say.

 

“You’ve probably grown up with these tales,” she murmurs into the cup of her coffee, “shifters who looses themselves, or just let the wolf take over and then wander away from their family, their pack. Or Shifters who finds themselves without a Link for a long period, losing the balance between the human and the animal mind.”

 

They all nod, because they’ve all heard it a hundred times before. They’ve lived it.

 

“Sometimes people return,” she says with a stern glance at Dean, “but these are people who have only been lost a few days, a week or two, tops.”

 

Dean anchors his anger in his curled fists.

 

“And those who return….they are different.”

 

“Different?” Dean croaks.

 

Pamela tilts her head, her expression settling into one of mild sympathy. It only sets Dean’s teeth on edge.

 

“What separate man from beast? Or humans from other animals?”

 

“What are you talking about?”

 

“Our language,” Sam says, “spoken, written. Our culture, our habits, our memories.”

 

Pamela smiles and nods, “an excellent summary of a complicated philosophical question.”

 

Sam preens, like he always does when he’s the first one with the correct answer.

 

“Look,” Dean says, relieved that he’s sounding reasonably calm and steady. “What are you really saying.”

 

“The longer the human mind is lost, the more we forget of what makes us human. People who’ve been without a Link for a few days might have only loose a few days. Those who have been gone for more than a week, well, some forgot how to read and write, how to tie their shoes. It seems like the human mind protects itself in a way, surrendering what it considers none essential at first. Childhood memories, knowledge not required for survival, how to ride a bike, what a radio looks like. The longer they are gone, the more they lose.”

 

She makes a significant pause and Dean catches up with disorienting speed.

 

“You’re saying that if Cas comes back, he might not…remember how to be human?”

 

“The chances of Cas finding his way back is slim at-” her words die in her throat and Dean feels Sam giving him a vicious nudge with his shoulders. Dean closes his eyes so hard he sees stars and constellation. He wipes a hand across his face to wipe away the colors twirling in front him.

 

“He might need help remembering fundamental things,” Pamela says softly, “he might not remember how to button his shirt or put on his pants. He might not remember how to talk. He might not remember any of you.”

 

“But we can help him remember?” Jess asks, “I mean, humans have strokes and forget how to speak or read, but they relearn.”

 

“Yes,” Pamela answers, “it takes time, but they do recover…relearn, as you said.”

 

“You said there was a slim chance,” Dean’s throat dips as he swallows back the hope in his words.

 

Pamela takes a deep breath and releases it in a long sigh.

 

“I can…force a Link between you,” she says. “But if Cas has gone somewhere you cannot follow, you might be lost trying to find him.”

 

“I don’t care,” Dean says.

 

“Dean!”

 

“I don’t care what it takes,” Dean growls, “I’m getting Cas back.”

 

A moment of heavy silence follows Dean’s outburst. Dean closes his eyes, steels himself for the arguments he is sure to follow. John and Sam won’t let him risk his…humanity. They’ll tell him that Cas is gone and that Dean must accept his loss and move on. Again.

 

“Very well,” John says, his voice distant and not sounding like his own.

 

“I’m making no guarantees that this will work,” Pamela says, “even if you have a strong Bond, there’s no guarantee you’ll be able to bring him back.”

 

“I will,” Dean insist, “can you do it now? Forge the Link between us?”

 

Pamela doesn’t hesitate before she nods.

 

“You will need to find your mate, the aspect of his…humanity, and help him establish dominance in his mind long enough for him to be able to Shift back to human shape.

 

“You should shift. The wolf might recognize its mate, it will help to establish the Link if there’s already a tentative connection there.”

 

“Let’s do this,” Dean pushes his chair away from the table, shedding his shirt as he moves towards the bedroom. Jess politely averts her gaze, while Sam merely sighs.

 

Dean pads towards the door to his bedroom. He can see the faint tendrils of Cas’ scent seep from under the door. It’s a deep, thick, brown color, so unusual from Cas’s usual scent that the wolf growls at the intrusion of the stranger in its territory. The sound of movement stills on the other side, replaced by a low, cautious growl.

 

(Cas!) Dean paws at the door, presses his nose to the floor, (Hey, Cas. It’s me, Dean.)

 

(Let me open the door,) John says.

 

He carefully pries the door open and Dean pads in. Castiel is standing in the far corner, ears flickering back and forth. His scent curls over Dean and Castiel tilts his head, regarding Dean with curiosity.

 

(Hey, Cas.) Dean tries, but the Link doesn’t connect.

 

He takes a step forward and his heart skips a beat when Cas rolls onto his stomach, displaying his vulnerable part to Dean. His tail wags and he trots over and noses the soft fur of Cas’s belly, licks his snout. Even if the scent is strange, isn’t really anything like Cas at all, it makes his Bond sing with joy.

 

(Alright, Dean, keep him calm), Pamela enters the room, slowly. Cas twirls onto all four, ears flat to his head a low rumble in his throat. Dean nips at his ears, careful, playful.

 

(You ready?) Pamela asks. She’s standing with both arms spread, palms open as if in supplication.

 

(Yes,) Dean says.

 

Suddenly his vision goes dark and for a moment, Dean wonders if somebody turned off the lights.

 

And then Dean sees their house.

 

It’s the only dim light in the darkness. But there is something wrong with the image, it’s blurred, flitting in and out of view, like the bad image on a television where you aren’t able to get a good enough signal to keep the image steady. He approaches it carefully, but the image doesn’t grow any clearer. Their cozy porch and the front yard are gone, and the windows are slightly askew. There’s a second where the front door looks solid and Dean yanks it open and steps inside.

 

(Cas!?) he calls, putting everything he has in the Link. He feels the minute tug on the Bond again, from somewhere far away, like a fishing line in the deep sea.

 

The interior of the house is more solid, but even here there are minute changes. The color in the kitchen keeps changing, circling true different hues as if cannot decide which one fits. The kitchen table has three chairs, but in the next, four, five, then two. The living room is in the same state of…unrest as the kitchen. Furniture keeps changing colors and size, the bookcase is empty and the walls are bare. The colors are changing here as well, white, blue, green.

 

The changes happen so rapidly that it takes Dean a few moments to realize what is actually happening. It’s disorienting and makes Dean feel slightly queasy. This must Cas’s memory of their home. It could be the last part of his humanity that’s his mind has hidden away, but even it is changing because Cas is slowly forgetting things, like where the windows were, the color of their kitchen or the pictures on their walls.

 

(Cas, are you here?)

 

A tiny tremor on the Bond.

 

Dean takes a deep breath and pushes through the living room and makes his way to their bedroom. He opens the door to the corridor and he wonders if he’s still in the same house. The corridor is endless with rows upon rows of doors on both sides. Dean couldn’t see any pattern or design in the doors, all of them were different. Some are large, others so tiny that only a mouse could hope to enter. Some stand almost shoulder, some seems to be miles apart. One is black, one is brown, one is old with peeling paint, one is colored glass and one is an iron gate. Even if Dean spends the rest of his life in this corridor, he’ll never be able to search all these rooms.

 

(Castiel, can you hear me?) The Bond and pulls him down the corridor, but Dean can’t tell from which door.

 

Dean grits his teeth. He starts walking.

 

He tries a few doors at random, all of them are locked, a few doesn’t even have doorknobs while several are only painted on the walls, colors fading, the doors slowly disappearing.

 

A representation of Cas’s memories, maybe. He’s heard talk of Memory Palaces, but he never thought it would be so literal. 

 

Dean has no sense of time and he has no idea how long he’s been following the faint pull of the Bond. The connection doesn’t seem to be getting any stronger. Cas still isn’t answering. Now and again he tries a door. A few open to dark voids, other opens to even longer corridors. He doesn’t dare to stray from the path.

 

After a while. Hours maybe, he comes to a large, green door. The only green one. The paint on it is mismatched as if it’s been painted over several times, but could never match one hue to the previous.  He opens it and stares into a large room, like the inside of the bow of a ship. There are painting on the walls, hundreds of them, some of them small, some are just paper pinned to the wall with tape, there are massive old painting ones that cover the entire walls, there are watercolors, pencil drawn, strange cubism like paintings and photographs. Some of the images are moving, but most of them are just smears of colors.

 

It’s the first room he’s found that doesn’t just contain darkness so Dean steps inside, wanders over to the first painting that catches his attention. It’s in a large ornate frame. It’s of a pretty, dark-haired woman, bending over a cradle and grinning at the infant with dark hair on his forehead, who looks up at her with wide, blue eyes.

 

Cas and his mother.

 

The next painting is of Cas and his sister chasing each other around on a meadow. She’s just a puppy with overly large paws and ears, stumbling after Cas who’s struggling to run maintain his balance.

 

The next frame is empty, nothing but a black canvas, but there’s a plaque on it that reads Gabriel. He finds other empty frames with the paint smeared out so that you can see that it’s suppose to be a person, but you cannot pick out any distinctive features. There are more biblical names. Michael. Balthazar. Muriel. Raphael.

 

(Is this your family, Cas?) Dean asks. There’s no vocal response, but Dean feels….certain that he’s right, even if Cas has never spoken of the family that exiled him.

 

The gallery contains pictures from Cas’s life, some faded, some still vivid. Cas in his shifted shape. The dark haired woman kissing Cas’s forehead. Somebody holding his hand and helping him climb a tree. Cas arguing with a tall, dark-haired man. The rest of his features has been erased. Cas and Victor, talking at the Gathering, though for some reason Victor has been given monstrous features, his dark shape looming over Cas’s.  Dean walks down the gallery, trailing a hand along the frame, feeling almost like a trespasser, a thief stealing through a house. He’s got not right to these memories, these intimate moments Cas hasn’t shared.

Cas and Victor, talking at the Gathering, though for some reason Victor has been given monstrous features, his dark shape looming over Cas’s.  Dean walks down the gallery, trailing a hand along the frame, feeling almost like a trespasser, a thief stealing through a house. He’s got not right to these memories, these intimate moments Cas hasn’t shared with him.

 

He finds a picture of Jess, mostly faded, like the paint has melted in the sun and run down the canvas, still he recognizes the halo of her golden hair and the scribbled name under. There’s Sam too, once a painting with vivid color, bleached and weatherworn. Then he finds Anna’s picture. She’s lying on a patch of grass, enjoying the warm of the sun, and the image comes alive when Dean gets closer. Her tail wags and she jumps playfully along the frame, nipping at Dean’s fingers.

 

(Hello,) Dean says even if it’s ridiculous to talk to one of Cas’s memories of his sister.

 

But the other pictures are in a state of ruin, Ash and Charlie’s are blank, John’s pictures has a few sketched lines while Benny and Bobby’s picture are black voids of nothing. He finds a picture of Alistair too, surprisingly vivid in detail, dark eyes measuring Dean as he walks past. Why would Castiel remember Alistair and Victor, but forget about Sam and Jess?

 

Dean turns a corner and finds that an entire wing has been dedicated to him.

 

There’s a massive sketched picture of his folded hands with such incredible details of the hair on the back of hands, the slight curve of his fingers, that for a second Dean mistakes it for a photograph. There’s an image of legs in torn and dirty jeans, there’s a giant one of his eyes and when Dean walks up to it, the length of the pupils are taller than him. Is this how Cas remembers his eyes? All these various and intense shades of green? The flecks of gold and brown in them, the smooth wrinkles around the lids, the length of his eyelashes. Surely his eyelashes are not that long.

 

After a while, Dean realizes that this section isn’t entirely devoted to him. At first he thinks that the pictures are just memories of him that Cas has forgotten, but under the layers of black and red he can just make out a pair of dark figures. It’s a fuzzy image, like one of Dean’s baby photos that’s been yellowed by age. He stares at them for a long time, before he has to viciously wipe the dampness from his eyes before they turn into tears.

 

He doesn’t even know why he’s crying.

 

He forces himself to move on, goes through the images of himself at the Gathering, watches himself make dinner, fix the broken heater, shifted and running through the woods. There’s one of him splashing through the river, the frame tilted and water running over the edge and spilling onto the floor. Curious, he takes the frame and straightens it.

 

“You’re not supposed to touch them.”

 

Dean twirls around so fast that he almost drags the picture off its hinges. There’s a small boy standing in front of him, probably no more than four or five with a mop of dark hair and vivid blue eyes. He’s dressed in a t-shirt that’s inside out and backward. He’s wearing only one shoe and a pair of shorts that is about two sizes too big. It looks as though this kid was never taught how to properly dress himself.

 

Holy crap.

 

(Cas?) Dean tries.

 

The boy tilts his head, studying Dean as if he’s a slightly interesting insect. He doesn’t respond to the Link, though, so Dean wets his lips and tries again.

 

“Ah, sorry. I…didn’t know.”

 

The boy’s eyes narrow slightly, not fully convinced by Dean’s professed ignorance of the rules. He looks weary, Dean thinks, dark hair plastered flat to his skull, pale and skinny.

 

“Who are you? Why are you here?”

 

Dean squeezes his hands into fists to stop them from trembling.

 

“I’m looking for somebody,” he says, struggling to keep his voice calm, “somebody important. His name is Castiel, do you know him?”

 

The boy’s nose scrunches, tiny brow furrowed in intense concentration.

 

“I’m the only one here,” the boy says and Dean feels his heart fall so hard in his chest it hurts.

 

“Well, me and…” the boy lowers his voice and shuffles his feet, his posture suddenly uncertain. Frightened.

 

Dean kneels in front of the boy and puts a hand on his thin shoulder. He locks his eyes on the fathomless blue gaze in front of him, feels the slight quiver of the Bond. Has Cas forgotten who he is, just as he’s forgotten his family? How can Dean rescue him if Cas isn’t here to be rescued?

 

“You can tell me, it'll be alright,” he says softly, “I promise.”

 

The child wrings his hands, eyes downcast and Dean gives his shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

 

“There’s the Big Bad Wolf,” it says in a hoarse whisper.

 

Dean frowns. Every Shifter child grows up hearing stories about The Big Bad Wolf. Kids would play “Who is Afraid of the Big Bad Wolf,” a game of shifters and Hide and Seek. But the Wolf is more than just a bad guy in children’s games. He’ll take children who are up past their bedtimes, who refuses to Shift, who disobeys their parents or leaves the Territory. Sam had believed in it until he was twelve years old, but Dean had quickly figured out that it was just a story used to scare little children into behaving.

 

“Have you seen him?” Dean asks. The child presses his lips together to a thin line and nods furiously.

 

“He comes in here,” he whispers, “he ruins the pictures. He ruins everything in the house.”

 

“Do you…do you live here?” Dean asks. The child stuffs his shoe against the carpet and looks suddenly like he’s been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

 

“I like this room,” the child says, “The Wolf doesn’t come into this room. He doesn’t like the pictures here.”

 

There are almost too many metaphors here for Dean to work them out, but he feels a sense of pride that his pictures, his memory, has kept the wolf at bay.

 

“So, where do you sleep?” Dean asks. The child points to the far corner of the room, where there’s a basket and a couple of blankets Dean hadn’t noticed when he came in. Dean takes the child’s hands, feels the small, warm digits secure in his and leads him over to the child’s bed.

 

There’s a blue blanket in it, the same one Dean buried Cas’s sister in. Next to the basket is a couple of dirty boxes of what might possibly be food.

 

“This is what you eat, huh?”

 

There’s a bunch of mismatched cutlery, plates, and bowls in a messy heap on the floor. The child nods and pushes a few boxes away to reveal a bowl of brown gruel that could scarcely be called dog food. Dean grimaces but tries to keep his face blank when he addresses the boy.

 

“Pretty….neat. And you sleep in a basket?”

 

“Yes,” the child answers as if Dean’s particularly dim-witted, “where else would I sleep?”

 

“You don’t have a bed, or…where do you get your food from?”

 

The kid shrugs, “it’s just here when I get hungry.”

 

“That’s…great,” Dean says, “So…do you want to show me around?”

 

The boy studies him with a thoughtful look, “are you sure you’re suppose to be here?”

 

“Yeah,” Dean swallows, “looking for somebody important to me.”

 

“Oh,” the kid answers, “well, you won’t find anybody else here but-”

 

The last of his words die in a gasp. His body goes stock still and his face so white that for a moment Dean thinks the kid might actually faint.

 

“What’s wrong,” Dean asks, grabbing the child’s shoulders and forcing his eyes to his, “what’s wrong?”

 

“It’s here,” the child whimpers, a look of desperation flooding his face “he’s going to take me.”

 

Dean glances up and sees a dark shape looming at the edge of his peripheral vision.

 

The beast is massive, it’s ears are almost brushing the ceiling as it steps into the gallery, sniffing the air.

 

“Hell no,” Dean says, “not while I’m here.”

 

“You can’t fight it,” the child cries, curling in on itself “we need to hide, it will go away when it’s done…done destroying.”

 

Dean takes a deep breath. This must be the physical manifestation of how Cas lost his humanity. The Big Bag Wolf wrecking havoc on his memories. So, maybe if Dean could just beat this…huge, vicious thing, Cas will be safe.

 

He feels a small tug on his sleeve and glances down into the child’s frightened eyes, “we need to hide,” he whispers.

 

“Kid,” Dean says, “this thing, it’s not a monster, it’s…it’s not real. It’s just a manifestation of our fears.”

 

“No, it’s real!” The boy cries, pulling free of Dean and crawling into his basket. He pulls the blue blanket over himself, but Dean can see his entire frame trembling.

 

“You should hide,” the kid whispers, “he won’t take you if he can’t see you.”

 

The Wolf strides slowly into the gallery, nose pressed against he floor, claws dragging marks in the carpet. It seizes upon a picture of Dean, the one of him in the river and with a massive paw it knocks the picture off its frame and tears into it, splintering the frame and tearing the canvas to shreds.

 

“It’s not real,” Dean places a careful hand on the quivering shape under the blanket “there’s nothing to be fear than fear itself.”

 

It sounds lame and unconvincing even to his own ears. The boy whimpers and tugs the blanket tighter around his shivering frame.

 

The Wolf yanks another picture off the wall and crushes it in its massive jaws. Dean dodges just in time to avoid getting gored by a massive piece of wood from the smashed frame. Then the beast turns its vicious eyes upon he strange picture of the two figures and Dean is suddenly beset with such a rage it leaves him uncomfortably breathless.

 

He bends down, picks up the piece. Tries the weight of it in his hand. It’s solid enough.

 

“Hey, asshole,” he cries.

 

The Wolf turns towards him, snorting a thick mist of breath down the corridor. It pads curiously towards Dean, each step making the floor tremble. The boy whimpers.

 

“Make it go away!”

 

“Get away from this place, you hear.” Dean lends his all his strength to the throw and watches with satisfaction as the piece soars through the air and hits Wolf’s nose. The creature doesn’t even flinch and Dean feels his own confidence faltering.

 

It’s not real.

 

It’s just a figment of Cas’s imagination.

 

It’s just Cas’s wolf. Just…an oversized and vicious version of it.

 

“You leave those memories alone, you hear?”

 

The Wolf’s lips pull away to reveal a deadly row of teeth.

 

“You’re just making it angry,” the boy wails.

 

“You gotta show it who’s boss,” Dean says. He picks up another piece of the crushed frame. Thinks that the kid’s plates will make due as additional arsenal should it be necessary.

 

Dean throws another piece of frame, this time hitting the beasts' head. It snarls, but it doesn’t approach.

 

“I’m not a helpless child,” Dean yells, “I’m not going to let you ruin anything else.”

 

The Wolf’s ears tilt back and forth as if it’s considering how much of a threat Dean really is. It takes a step forward and Dean and this time Dean throws a dirty plate at it. It smashes against the beast’s head and the creature growls.

 

“Come and see this, kid,” Dean says, arming himself with another plate.  He hears the sound of shifting fabric and then the boy creeps out from his hiding place. His eyes and chin are read, wet from tears and snot. He sniffles and clutches Dean’s arm so hard Dean is sure he’ll leave a bruise. If he wasn’t just an aspect of Cas’s memory.

 

Dean sends the plate soaring through the air. It misses the Wolf, but it makes a massive clatter as it skids across the walls and crashes into an ornate metal frame. The monster hesitates, its ears flat on its back.

 

“Show him that you’re not afraid of it,” Dean murmurs and places a piece of the picture frame in the kid’s hands. The child stares at it, before closing his eyes and lobbing it in the general direction of the creature. It misses, of course, and falls harmlessly to the floor, but at least the kid is getting into he spirit of the thing.

 

“Great,” Dean says, “aim for its head.”

 

The child picks up a fork and throws it with all his might at the Wolf. It hits its paw and the Wolf shuffles a step back. The motion makes it shrink, its back no longer touching the roof.

 

“Good one,” Dean hands the kid another piece of the frame.

 

“Go away,” the child whispers. He throws something else at the Wolf, his voice growing in strength with each object hitting the monster. Cans. Boxes of food. Plates. Forks. And with each step the kid takes forward, with each pace the Wolf shuffles back Dean feels the Bond grow warm, feels it preen with pleasure and pulse with life. And each time the Wolf moves away, it seems to lessen in size somehow. Its paws are scuffling against the carpet, ears flat.

 

(Cas,) he tries, (Cas, come back)

 

“Go away!”

 

“Great,” Dean cheers, “see, it’s afraid of you if you just show it some attitude.”

 

The child grins at him, chins tear streaked and lower lip trembling. His eyes are shining, vibrant and so like Cas that Dean’s heart stumbles over itself in its eagerness. The Bond blossoms.

 

Dean takes a step forward, hands raised and armed with a cup. Get the Wolf away, he thinks, and Cas will come back to him. The Wolf is slowly backing away, its meaning growl running through its shrinking frame.

 

“Be gone!” Dean shouts and tosses a porcelain cup at the Wolf watches it shatter with satisfaction against the thing’s head.

 

And then.

 

Before Dean even knows what’s happening, the creature leaps forward and locks its jaw around Dean’s arm. Dean hisses in pain and he hears how the boy drops his artillery and freezes on the spot. Dean clenches his jaw, refuses to let the scream of pain tear itself free from its throat. He meets the creature’s eyes, sees the smirk in them as it yanks Dean forward and onto its knees.

 

“Dean!” The kid cries. In the red mist of pain, Dean realizes that he never told the kid his name. He closes his eyes for a second, wills his heart to stop its rampage. Blood swells up from the wound, flowing freely over the creature’s muzzle.

 

“I’m fine,” he presses out, “I’m not scared of it and neither should you be.”

 

“It’s….it’s….”

 

The Wolf takes a deep breath and the air seems to inflate it. Its paws grow bigger, the teeth in Dean’s arms slightly longer. Sharper.

 

“Cas,” Dean breathes, “the…the more afraid you are of it, the bigger it gets.”

 

“It’s going to kill us,” Cas whimpers. Dean twists his head around, sees Cas, still a child, hiding his face in his hands, body trembling with sobs.

 

“No, Cas. It’s not,” Dean swallows, “because you’re going to save me. You’re not afraid of it, hells, you weren’t afraid of Alistair. Do you remember? You came to my rescue then, you’re going to rescue me again.”

 

“I can’t,” Cas cries, “I can’t go back.”

 

“Yes, you can,” Dean groans in pain as the creature yanks him forward, dragging him along his arm. Large paws scrape across the carpet, blood trickles along its leg and pools on the floor. Dean’s vision grows hazy and it’s growing harder to talk. To think.

 

“Cas, all you gotta do is to show this thing that you aren’t afraid of it.”

 

“Dean-”

 

“Cas,” Dean wets his lips, “it’s alright if you’re scared Cas, I don’t…I don’t care, I just want you back.” His chest is tight, it’s becoming difficult to breathe.

 

He hears Cas’s wheezing breath, but when he tries to look at him, he finds that his vision is hazy. His stomach twists with pain. The carpet squelches under his feet, soaked by his own blood.

 

“I’m so sorry, Dean,” Cas’s breath shakes and Dean closes his eyes.

 

“No,” his throat is dry and he swallows and swallows, “I’m sorry. I should have come for you. I shouldn’t have just…given up on you.”

 

He feels the Bond ebbing away from him, like the tide pulling him out to the darkness. The Wolf pulls him forward and then lets go of his grip.  Dean goes down to his knees. His palms are wet and it takes all of his last strength to roll onto his back. The ceiling swims over him.

 

“I liked your pictures,” Dean murmurs, “even that weird one that wasn’t of me.” Dean lets his eyes close for a second. “It felt so strange, familiar and sad, somehow.”

 

When he opens them, he stares into the deadly maw of the Wolf.

 

 


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for still sticking with me and giving me your kudos and comments. Without them, I would never find the courage to write.
> 
> It took them almost 50k but they are finally together again. I fear this might be the angstiest chapter yet, but please keep in mind the happy ending tag.

**Warnings: panic attacks, seizures, angst, some (mild) gore.**

 

Dean wakes in an instant with a desperate panic, clawing his way to consciousness. He can’t remember falling asleep and for the beat of one terrifying heartbeat, he doesn’t know where he is and the only thing he knows is that he cannot forget what he saw. That he saw something important and that-

 

He blinks away his tears until his vision clears and then he sees Sam standing over him with a concerned frown.

 

“Are you alright, Dean? Why were you crying?”

 

Dean wants to assure his brother that’ll he’ll be fine as soon as he can stop his heart from trying to beat its way out of his chest, but the words clog in his throat, stuck there along with sour acid. He pushes himself up on his elbows, twists his upper body over the edge of the bed and vomits. It’s only water and bile and his stomach writhes in an attempt to squeeze out anything more.

 

"I wasn´t crying," he mutters.

 

“Here,” Sam says softly and wraps a blanket around Dean’s naked shoulders. Dean tugs the fabric tightly around him, but it does little to ease the tremors.

 

“I need a hand,” a voice calls, drawing Sam away, “help me move him onto his side, push some of this furniture away.”

 

“What’s happening,” Dean drags a hand across his mouth, wiping away spit and vomit.

 

“He’s hazing a seizure,” Pamela says calmly.

 

Dean crawls across the bed and stares down at Castiel’s naked and thrashing form. Sam moves a bedside table away and then helps Pamela roll him onto his side. His breathing is wheezy and yellowish foam is bubbling out between his lips. Pamela keeps half an eye on Cas and the other on her watch and Dean counts the seconds with her.

 

Almost a minute.

 

The shaking stops and Cas collapse onto the floor. Eyes closed. The only movement the slow rise and fall from his chest. Pamela leans over him and places her ear to his mouth, but even from his distance, Dean can hear the whistling sound of his breathing. Pamela gently pries his lips apart and uses her fingers to clear Cas’s mouth of saliva and vomit. A split second later Cas coughs and gags, bile and spit running down his chin and onto the floor. She lets the cough run its course and Dean is about to demand that she does something useful to help him when Cas’s breath evens out.

 

“What’s going on?”

 

He crawls over the bed and onto the floor. He kneels at Cas’s side, stares down at his pale skin, prickling in the light chill. His palms years to touch him, to confirm that he is actually here. That he came back to Dean. But his hands are shaking so hard that he worries that if he touches him, he’ll hurt him.

 

“I know it looks scary, Dean,” Pamela murmurs, “but it was just a seizure. Does he have any previous experiences with it? Does he have a medical condition? Epilepsy? Diabetes?”

 

“No…no, nothing like that.” His fingers twitch in the blanket.

 

Pamela nods, but she cannot school her face quickly enough to hide the concern from her expression. She places a hand on Cas’s shoulders and knees rearrange his posture until he is resting in what Dean recognizes as the recovery position.  Jesse appears, handing Pamela a wet cloth that she uses to gently wipe the vomit away from Cas’s lips and then her own fingers.

 

“Thanks.”

 

Dean pulls the blanket off his shoulders and drapes it carefully around Cas’s form. His palms find the back of his head, combs through he soft strands of the hair at the nape of his neck, over the curve of his ear and across his chin. It trails over the sharp edges of his shoulder blades, skids softly over his sides, feeling each curve of his ribs. He’s thinner than before, his skin an unhealthy pallor, cold and clammy even thought he blanket. But he’s alive.

 

“Here,” Sam says, handing Dean a bundle of soft, warm, blankets. “We all know how he hates to be cold.”

 

Dean nods numbly and spreads another blanket over Cas´s torso, tucks one around his feet. He always complains about cold feet.

 

“Can’t we move him onto the bed?”

 

“We need to wait a while,” Pamela says with a nervous glance at Castiel´s slumbering form. Dean knows what she’s not saying. She’s worried about another seizure.

 

“Just keep an eye on him,” she pats Dean’s back, “don’t give him anything to eat and drink and call me when he wakes.”

 

The door closes behind him with a small click. Dean allows himself to let loose the breath he didn’t know he was holding. One he’s held for months and years, ever since Cas was taken. It shudders through his body, leaving him oddly hollow like he´s forgetting something, and with a sense of relief he feels guilty for acknowledging that maybe it wasn´t all that important. His mate is back. He is in their bedroom. Dean’s hand is touching his shoulder. He can feel the heat from his hands seeping into Castiel’s skin. He leans forward until his forehead rests against Cas’s knobby spine, closes his eyes against the memory of what Pamela had warned him about, about his own experiences in Cas’s…mind.

 

So what if Cas no longer knows how to tie his shoes or read, or write. Dean can teach him all those things. Cas is wicked smart, he’ll relearn things faster than Dean can teach him.

 

Everything will be alright.

 

 

Half an hour later, Cas has his second seizure.

 

Pamela comes running through the door before Dean has even finished calling her name. This one is more violent than the other, Cas’s body curves off the floor, his arms and legs flailing violently.

 

“What’s happening!”

 

“Grab his head,” Pamela says, “gently, just-use your thighs to keep him from banging his head on the floor.”

 

Dean slides around Cas’s trembling body and gently eases his head into his lap.

 

“Shit, he’s bleeding!”

 

Blood trickles down the corner of his mouth in a thin, dark, red trail. It’s a terrifying sight Dean’s ever seen.

 

“He probably bit his cheek or his tongue,” Pamela tries to assure him. She disappears for a moment into their bathroom and returns with a wet cloth that she gives to Dean. He softly dabs at the blood on his lips, wipes away the trail around his chin. Castiel is almost deathly still and it makes Dean think of the poor guy Rufus had rescued. He had died with violent shivers contorting his body, bending his back like a bow until Dean thought it might snap. He can’t lose Cas. Not now. Not ever again.

 

“Why is this happening?”

 

“I don’t know,” Pamela sighs “and without access to modern medical equipment like an MRI I can’t tell you anything but guesswork.”

 

“Then guess!” Dean growls, curling possessively over his mate. The wolf bares its teeth, ears pressed flat to its head.

 

Pamela bites her lower lip and considers the situation in front of her. An Alpha with a wounded mate can be viciously unpredictable and dangerous.

 

“It could be that finding an equilibrium between the human and wolf mind is too difficult. That these seizure is his mind’s way of…fighting those changes.”

 

Dean thinks about the Big Bad Wolf in Castiel’s mind and the terrified boy hiding from it.

 

“We’ll just have to wait and see,” Pamela says with  a sad twist of her lips.

 

Dean folds his body over Cas’s until their foreheads are pressed together. He inhales the sickly scent of Castiel’s blood and vomit.

 

“You gotta come back to me,” he murmurs into Castiel’s skin, “I don’t say it… a lot, but I love you alright, I love you, so you need to come back.”

 

He hears the sound of Pamela’s retreating steps across the floor and the soft sound of the door closing. Dean sits still, feeling raw and empty.

 

 

 

He must have dozed off because he comes awake to the sensation of having forgotten something terribly important. But as the room comes into clarity around him, the thing...the thing he is supposed to remember slips away. Somebody punches his arm. For a second he thinks Cas is having another seizure until he hears the sound of Cas’s indistinguishable murmurs. He´s talking to somebody, calling out to them. He looks like a wreck: hair plastered to his forehead, his brow knotted in deep concentration and his lips pressed into an angry, white line.

 

“Cas,” Dean whispers, but Cas is too consumed by his nightmare to hear him.

 

“Cas, you gotta wake up,” Dean places a hand carefully on his shoulder, grips it firm enough so that Cas will feel his presence. His eyes flare open at once, wide and fathomless. He trashes free of Dean’s grip and scrambles away from him and backing up against the wall. He tries to stand and hisses in pain when he´s forced to put weight on his injured foot. Dean feels Castiel’s fear trail along their Bond, curling down his back and settle in his stomach. It’s an effort to fight down the echo of the panic, to keep the Wolf from taking control of the situation. The Wolf is all instincts, it doesn’t need to think.

 

“Cas, hey, babe, look at me,” Dean’s hand hovers inches from his shoulders, desperately wanting to touch.

 

Icy blue eyes flicker to his. Dean’s heart beat out a quick, cold thump of dread at the desperate, lost look on Castiel’s face. It thrums through their Bond, settling somewhere deep and dark in Dean’s mind, twisting painfully.

 

“Dean,” Cas says in a voice hoarse from screaming, “where…where are we, what is this place? What happened?”

 

Dean flexes his fingers, tries to keep them still, but his hands have a mind of their own and they find their way to Cas’s cheek, spreading across his jaw, securing him in place, but not so firmly that Cas couldn't flee if he wanted to.

 

“Hey,” Dean says softly, tips of his fingers sliding over damp, clammy, skin. Cas’s pulse skitters under his touch. “Take a deep breath, it’s alright.”

 

Cas closes his eyes for a moment, taking a couple of slow, even breaths until Dean feel’s his pulse evening out.

 

“Good,” Dean smiles and lets his hands trail from Cas’s chin to his shoulders, his arm curling around him. Cas’s response is immediate, he folds himself towards Dean until his forehead is pressed against his chest and there’s only a sliver of air separating them.

 

“My Dean,” he murmurs, his hands finding the crook of Dean’s elbows and holding on. Dean pulls back just enough to place a tender kiss on his forehead before resting his cheek against the top of Cas’s head. He feels the coarse caress of Cas’s hair against his nose. The Bond flares, bright and warm and Dean wills all his love through it, wishing he could make it tap it out in morse code. Cas nuzzles up against him, and Dean bites back the sigh that shudders through him.

 

They remain embraced like this for a while, their breath steady and in sync, the only sound in the room. Though all too soon Dean feels hands skimming along his arm and the warm breath against his neck as Cas pulls away to look at him, blue eyes searching.

 

Dean swallows and struggles to dredge up the words that are stopping on the tip of his tongue.

 

“What’s…what is the last thing you remember?”

 

Cas’s studies the floor, tries to hide his expression, but Dean knows him well enough to recognize his fear. He tries not to think about the house in Cas’s head, the one with changing paint and furniture, the long corridor with all the closed doors and faded pictures.

 

“I..I don’t,” Cas wraps his hands around himself and twists away from Dean’s gaze, “I know…I know I know you. You’re Dean, my alpha, my mate. I feel this Bond between us, but I don’t know how we meet, or,” he cranes his neck, “this house. It’s like…I just woke up and- why does my leg hurt?”

 

Dean reaches out to Cas, but sees the omega hunch his shoulder and recognizes his need for space. He lets his hand fall limply to his side.

 

“We’ve been Bonded for almost five years,” Dean says softly, “this…is our house.” He doesn’t know how to explain to Cas that this isn´t technically their home anymore but decides to deal with the eventual fallout from the lie later. “You’ve been… injured and ill and-”

 

“Sick?” Cas twirls around, his eyes narrowing. Dean’s hands ball into fists, his nails digging half-moons into his palms. What is he supposed to do? Is he meant to just tell Cas that he was kidnapped and held captive for almost two years? That he spent months trapped in his own mind with his Wolf?

 

Stomach twisting with pain, Dean sorts through his words as carefully as he can.

 

“Some time ago you were….taken by these people, they call themselves Hunters and they work for people who collect rare and special Shifters.”

 

The muscles in Cas’s back jumps and dances under his skin as he twists even further away from Dean.

 

“They took me.”

 

“They held you for a long time,” Dean takes a step forward, stopped by the taunt T in Cas’s back. “They put a silver collar on you,” he whispers, “and it made you lose yourself.”

 

Cas’s breath shakes, “how long?”

 

“I…it was-” Dean’s heart has crawled up his throat to lodge there along with all the words Dean doesn’t want to let loose. How he failed to protect Cas. How he gave up on him.

 

“How long?”

 

Cas turns to look at him, eyes brimming with some unnamed emotion. Despair? Fear? Disgust?

 

“Eighteen months, one week and three days.”

 

His demeanor goes instantly rigid and Dean braces himself equally for Castiel’s rage and sobs. But Cas doesn’t move. He stands still, arm wrapped tightly around himself, damming all emotions.

 

One nauseating second follows another, minutes ticking away.

 

“Please say something,” Dean begs when he can longer stand the silence.

 

Cas lets out a shuddering breath that wrecks his whole body.

 

“Thank you,” he whispers, “for finding me.”

 

Dean curses softly and closes the distance between them. He puts a hand on Cas’s shoulders and turns the omega around and pulls towards his chest. He curls his arms around his mate’s waist, holds him against him. He feels Cas blink against his skin, feels the collar of his shirt become wet.

 

Eventually, they disentangle themselves and Cas pull away and sits down on the bed, picking at a loss thread in the covers. Dean watches him for a moment, rudderless and confused.

 

“Let me fetch you some clothes. I´ll be right back,” Cas doesn´t make any indication that he´s heard him. Dean hesitates for a moment before forcing himself out of the room, closing it softly behind him. He allows himself one moment to feel the thundering rush of his heart beating wildly against his chest. Then he closes his eyes. Takes a deep breath. He can´t lose his cool now, Cas needs him to be on top of this.

He allows himself one moment to feel the thundering rush of his heart beating wildly against his chest. Then he closes his eyes. Takes a deep breath. He can´t lose his cool now, Cas needs him to be in control.

 

There´s a bag of clothes just outside the door. It´s another painful reminder that this isn’t their house anymore, that Jesse and Sam packed away all of Castiel´s clothes and put them in storage. He finds a pair of gray sweatpants and a green Henly sweater for Cas, along with fresh socks and underwear. For himself he pulls out a pair of jeans, a t-shirt, and a plaid long-sleeved shirt.

 

He goes to the bathroom, dresses quickly and splashes some water on his face, hoping it makes him look more refreshed and more in control.

 

“Here,“ Dean says handing Cas the clothes. He turns away, more out of politeness more than anything else and listen to the sound of Cas pulling on the clothes. It’s a slow process and when he’s finished, he doesn’t comment on the shirt being back to front.

 

“Do you want something to eat?”

 

Cas shakes his head and sinks down onto their bed again, hands folded in his lap and his thoughts miles away.

 

“I’ll get you a glass of water at least,” Dean says and slips out of the room. He returns with a glass and places it into Cas’s hand. His mate stares at it for a moment before lifting it to his lips. Dean stares at his Adam's apple bobbing up and down. Cas places the glass on the nightstand, it wobbles a little on the edge. Cas scoots back on the bed and lies down, his back to Dean, hands tucked under his head and feet curled up to his chest.

 

"I´ll....I will be right outside if you need more," Dean says. Castiel tenses, but he doesn´t say anything. After another moment, Dean closes the door behind him and hides his face in his hands.

 

"You alright, Dean?"

 

He looks up. Pamela is standing there with a plate of sandwiches.

 

"Jess figured you might be hungry," she explains.

 

"Thanks," Dean murmurs, grabbing the plate out off her hands.

 

Even if he knows from experience that Jesse is a fantastic cook, the sandwich tastes like wax in his mouth. It´s a struggle to force it down and his stomach rumble in protest of its perceived abuse.

 

"Is he awake?" Pamela asks.

 

"Yeah," Dean wipes a hand across his mouth, "woke up a few minutes ago. Had a bit of a panic attack."

 

"Understandably," Pamela frowns, "what does he remember?"

 

Dean swallows the last bite and studies the crumbs on the plate as he finds his answers.

 

"He remembers me, that we´re mated. He didn´t remember how long, or how we met, or that this...was our house. He doesn´t remember what happened to him."

 

Pamela nods, "during the next couple of days he will likely realize that there are more things that he doesn´t know."

 

Dean thinks about the shirt back-to-front and nods.

 

"I have other concerns too," Pamela says.

 

"What?"

 

"Being able to bring him back after he´s been without a Link for so many months is nothing short of a miracle. You must understand, Dean, that your mate has been through a severely traumatic experience and that his struggles aren´t over yet. He will likely suffer from what the humans call PTSD, he may develop phobias, he needs to relearn his own life. He is going to be fighting for many years. It´s going to take its toll on him and you. Your patience will be tested to its limits and then pushed even further. It will require that you give everything it got and then it will demand more."

 

"I´ll do whatever it takes," Dean promises, "he´s my mate and I love him."

 

Pamela studies him for a moment, her eyes suddenly calculating. Dean wonders what she sees. If she believes his dedication to Cas´s recovery or if she sees something she doesn´t like.

 

"It is possible that he´s not going to be the same person you knew two years ago, Dean," Pamela says, her voice oddly distant. "Sometimes....extreme circumstances makes people change, they become somebody who is able to handle them. You can´t expect him to fit into the same...mold, that he´ll be able to slip into the same life you had before."  There´s a warning there, buried beneath a lesser disclosure.

 

Dean feels his pulse hammering beneath his skin, "I know that," he lies because the thought of his Cas not returning to him is unthinkable. "But I found him twice now, I´ll find him no matter how many times it takes."

 

Pamela´s smile doesn´t quite reach her eyes. She pats Dean´s shoulder.

 

"Good. I´m going to check in on him, you´ll give us a moment of privacy."

 

It´s not really a question and Dean dips his chin and steps aside so that Pamela can enter their bedroom.

 

"There´s somebody who wants to talk to you," she says, her hand on the doorknob. "One of the shifters you rescued, the omega, I think he said his name was Samandriel."

 

Dean frowns. His memory of the rescue is still hazy at best, full of conflicting images he doesn´t really want to examine too closely.

 

"Sure," he says.

 

"He´s in your kitchen."

 

 

The kitchen is as bare and empty as the first day Cas and Dean moved in. The mismatching chairs are still there, but some of the cabinets Dean fixed have been pulled down.

 

Samandriel is a scrawny looking guy, probably no older than eighteen. Dean wonders if it´s his time spent in captivity that´s taken his toll on him or if he was just born gangly. His brown hair has been swept away from his eyes and he´s wearing what looks like Jesse´s clothes, judging by the flower pattern on the sweater.  He leaps to his feet as soon as Dean enters, knocking over his cup of tea in the processes.

 

"Mr. Winchester. Alpha," he mumbles, averting his eyes and giving Dean a deep and clumsy bow. It´s a fairly archaic greetings given to Alphas by Omegas and it makes Dean feel uncomfortably old.

 

"Samandriel, right," Dean nods a little, gesturing for Samandriel to return to his seat. The kid scrambles to obey, apologizing profusely for making a mess.

 

"Yeah," he finds his seat, knots his fingers together and rests his hands on the table.

 

"How is Cas?"

 

Dean forces a tight smile, "he´s...recovering. He´s sleeping right now." He tries not to think about the terrified way Cas had clung to him. How Castiel had thanked him for finding him.

 

"Oh, yeah," Samandriel offers him a fleeting smile, "I heard you managed to find him. After he got....lost, I mean. I think they knew what they were doing when they put that silver collar on him. I mean, we all begged them to take it off, but I...I mean, they wanted to teach us a lesson."

 

Dean nods, the only action he trusts himself to perform at the moment. Crowley and the rest of the Hunters and Collectors got off far too easily. The Wolf would never have let them get away with hurting their mate. When he realized what they had done  Castiel fought all he could to find them. Anger burns along his spine. It´s not enough to just smoke them out, they should have made sure they burned the wretched place to the ground. He should have made sure they would never again be able to harm a single Shifter. His Wolf agrees. It prowls his mind, a dark, deadly creatures, muzzle dripping with blood. He went absolutely feral. He bit some guy´s arm clean off. He should have chased down every measly wreck, nailed them to the ground and made them suffer in agony for every last breath. But I overheard one of the guards saying that they were sold the same day they were born. He should have letter them suffer for every second they kept Castiel in that cage, and then he should have let them watch as the Wolf feasted on their guts-

 

"....what?"

 

Dean fights his way through the white noise hissing in his head.

 

Samandriel stares at him, his scent slick and anxious. His hands are trembling so hard that the entire table shakes.

 

"What did you say," Dean growls. Samandriel stares at him, seeming to shrink in on himself until he´s a quivering ball. Dean grabs hold of his stupid sweat and yanks him over the table.

 

"I...I was just saying...saying that some of the guards said he heard they were sold the same day they were- but they waited a few days before they came and picked them up and we tried to, we really tried to, but Cas was so weak after the-"

 

Samandriel´s fear stinks up the entire room, and his eyes go impossibly wide. He clasps his hands in front of his mouth as if Dean can´t shake the rest of the words out of him.

 

"I thought...Cas didn´t tell you- you didn´t know-"

 

"Didn´t know what," Dean hisses.

 

 With terrifying clarity, his mind starts to make sense of all those little details that´s been nagging him. The sudden mood swings. Cas´s stomach flue. The Collectors rush to capture him and the reason why the Hunter had to take him that day. Deep down, he already knows the answer. He saw it in Castiel´s gallery of him.

 

"I´m sorry," Samandriel whimpers, "your pup. Crowly held an auction and- they came and collected him."

 

 

 

 


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was difficult to write, but I hope you will enjoy it.
> 
> As always, thanks for your support and don´t hesitate to share your ideas and suggestions for the story.

**Warning: some major angst and a minor, kinda-physical confrontation between the main characters. It is mostly Dean being bad at dealing with stuff.**

 

**Chapter nineteen.**

 

The silence that follows is so solid it feels like there’s somebody else with them in the kitchen. Samandriel cuts a glance in his direction, his Adam’s apple working against the words stuck in his throat.

 

Dean’s struggling with his own words and when he can finally force them out, they don’t sound like they belong to him.

 

“Tell me. Everything. Tell me!” He advances on Samandriel who scrambles to his feet, raising his hands, bracing himself for a blow. Dean stops and gives himself five seconds to reel in his emotions. If he explodes in Samandriel’s face, the omega isn’t likely to tell him anything.  And right now. He needs to know what the hell Samandriel is talking about.

 

“Ofcourse” Samandriel hurries to add, “I will tell you. Just…keep calm.”

 

Samandriel wets his lips and slowly returns to his seat. He doesn’t even want to give the appearance of being a threat to the very emotionally unstable Alpha holding on to the last shreds of his temper.

 

“I was captured about…about three months before Castiel arrived. My capture was….it’s not important now,” he hurries to add. “The day before they had moved me inside to this…well, it looked kinda like an apartment. Two beds, a toilet, a shower, even a tiny fridge. Plenty of books and the basic amenities. It even had one those….dog doors that let us go outside, well, out into the cage at any rate. It was a much nice place than the shack they’d kept me in during the first few months of my capture.

 

One day, they dragged Castiel in and placed him one of the beds. He was still unconscious, but the doctor…well, vet really,” Samandriel mutters darkly, “his name is doctor Gaines, one of Crowley’s cronies, fussed around him for a moment, and then he left. Castiel woke a few hours later, disoriented and groggy, no idea where he was, how much time had passed and how he got here. It was similar to my own experience, so…well, I tried to help him.”

 

“Was he hurt?” Dean asks in a low voice.

 

“No, just drugged.  They must have caught him by surprise, because the other guy they brought in a few weeks earlier, he looked like shit.”

 

Dean closes his eyes against the memory of Jane’s explanation of how she managed to sneak up on Cas. “ _I found one of your work overalls in the laundry. It stank of oil and engine grease and I knew it’d mask my scent.”_

 

“We spent the first day,” Samandriel continues, “trying to figure out a way to escape. We tested every door, but they were of solid metal, the bars had silver in them and the window too high and too small. When it became obvious that there wasn’t any immediate way to escape, Castiel starts pacing the length of the room for days, refusing to eat, drink, until one of the guards said they’d drug him and stick a feeding tube down his throat if he doesn't eat something.”

 

“It’s…it’s weird,” Samandriel fiddles with a loose thread on his sweater, fingers pale against the fabric, “but you….there’s nothing to do, so you settle into this routine so you won’t go mad. We did morning exercises and Castiel taught me this weird breathing exercise thing. We had our meals, they gave us plenty of stuff to read, some board games. We talked about…stuff. You know. Family. He talked about you a lot. Said you’d come and find him. That’d we’d get out of here. And the guards, well, they left us  mostly alone. We got plenty of food and new books. They were almost nice to us. I didn’t understand at first why they gave us special treatment.”

 

Dean seizes hold the back of a chair. It might be the only thing that keeps him upright. Crowley had probably considered Castiel his most valuable commodity. A pregnant Shifter. The chance of a shifter pup.

 

“A few weeks later, doctor Gaines comes in and wants to take Castiel away for some tests. Castiel’s always been sorta…calm about everything, but he flips when Gaines tries to grab hold of him. Explodes into his shift, knocks him down and barrels past him. A few minutes later the alarm goes off and all hell breaks lose. I don’t see Castiel again and for a couple of days I think he’s actually managed to escape. But then…” Samandriel’s words falter, his lips thin, but his eyes betray him.

 

“They bring him back in, he’s drugged again and he’s got a cast on his leg. Somebody shot him. Later we overhear some of the guards talking about how Crowley had the guard who shot him torn to pieces. Castiel kinda....looses his spirit, gets…he was always kinda quiet and calm, but now he’s just…withdrawn. After refusing food for two days, Crowley comes in and he’s…” Samandriel is shaking so hard the entire table rattles, “he’s carrying a silver collar. Says that since they can’t punish Castiel, they’ll punish me and then he-he puts it on and everything-”

 

Samandriel’s face goes tight with terror, “I’m out of out for three days and when I come to, Castiel is on his knees apologizing, as if it was his fault.”

 

Dean’s lips twitch upward without his permission. Castiel has often put the welfare of others before his own. If somebody steps on his toes, Castiel will apologize for being in their way. He once gave away his umbrella and walked home in the pouring rain, getting drenched to the bones and suffering for days from a vicious bout of the flu. It’s one of the things that infuriates Dean, but also one of the reasons why he loves him.

 

Dean clears his throat, “what happens then?”

 

“They threaten me to get Castiel to behave,” Samandriel confesses in a tiny voice, “when he refuses to eat, or goes too long without Shifting, or when he tries to resist doctor Gains. He never says anything, but it….erm,” Samandriel blushes, “it becomes obvious why there’s careful around him.”

 

“Oh,” Dean says, his voice small and flat.

 

The time of his pregnancy should have been a cherished time between mates and extended families. His father, Sam, Jess, everyone in the Pack would have waited with joy and longing to greet the new additions to their family. Dean wonders what color Cas would have painted the nursery. Would he have asked John to make the furniture? There would be tiny clothes, soft blankets, mobiles above the cot, toys and teething rings. Would Castiel have picked up any strange habits and cravings? Instead, he had been kept prisoner, locked up in a tiny apartment, far away from his mate and Pack and with constant threats. Cas must have been terrified. The thoughts make something hot and terrible burn beneath his heart.

Instead, he had been kept prisoner, locked up in a tiny apartment, far away from his mate and Pack and with constant threats. Cas must have been terrified. The thoughts make something hot and terrible burn beneath his heart.

  

Samandriel doesn’t seem to have noticed Dean’s struggles, “there were weekly controls towards the end and Castiel always came back from them looking like they had…had stolen a little more of his soul each time.” Samandriel knots his fingers together, twisting them until they turn white and blue, “I think…I think maybe he thought he’d wouldn’t make it.”

 

“What?” Dean chokes, eyes gleaming with unshed tears. He wipes furiously at his eyes and brings Samandriel back into focus. Samandriel straightens up.

 

“I….” Samandriel a whirled of emotions flashes over his face, too quickly for Dean to recognize what he’s hiding. Samandriel stifles his words and finds new ones.

 

“One night, Castiel starts screaming and I wake up to find doctor Gains standing over him with a syringe. I didn’t even think, I just leaped on him, tried to drag him away, but this other guard came and clipped me over the head. It all happened so fast and then suddenly they are dragging Castiel away, and there’s this look in his eyes like- and I think….I think I’m not going to see him again.”

 

Samandriel is quiet for a long time before he speaks, “ when I do see him again, almost a week later, he’s in a different pen and he’s got the collar on him. I think it’s a punishment at first, but as the days pass-we all plead with them to take it off, but-”

 

He says these last words to the table because Dean is already gone.

 

He meets Pamela in the corridor and something in his eyes or his scent startles her. She stops, eyes narrowing and her hand snags his arm as he tries to brush past.

 

“Dean,” the grip on his arm tightens. She’s an alpha and her grip is strong and firm, but Dean is fueled by a whirlwind of emotions, too many and too conflicting to name. He yanks his arm free, his lips curling back in a snarl. Pamela takes a step back and spreads her hands wide where he could see that she meant no harm.

 

“Dean Winchester, you need to calm down, what’s wrong-”

 

The rest of her sentence is lost in the white noise in his mind. He opens the door to their bedroom and finds Cas sitting on the edge of the bed, face hidden in his hands, shoulders hunched up to his ears. He turns when he hears Dean approach, his eyes going impossibly wide with something that Dean doesn’t want to call fear. Cas rises slowly from the bed, his eyes flickering between Dean and the closed door behind him.

 

“Dean,” there’s a subdued, empty note in his voice. His gaze finds the floor. If Dean was in a position to think straight, he’d recognize the omega’s submission. But Dean’s attention is solely focused on the question burning in his mind, leaving room for little else.

 

“Cas,” he grabs his mate’s shoulders and turns him around until they are standing face to face. He takes a deep breath, tries to still the static of pain beating through his mind. Somewhere he has children that he’s never met, that he never knew existed because Cas didn’t tell him.

 

Castiel keeps his eyes firmly on the floor, his hands balling into fists.  His expression is carefully guarded, however, his emotions leak through the Bond, his confusion and distress settling in Dean’s chest and makes him loosen his grip on Castiel’s shoulders.

 

“Who did you tell?”

 

“What?”

 

Cas’s gaze finds his, eyes blue and brittle. Dean clenches his jaw, tries to calm the churning vortex of anger that’s taking control of him. He feels it, burning hot and terrible beneath his skin. Crowley has taken everything from him and Dean didn’t even know it.

 

There’s a knock on the door and Cas seizes in his grip and makes an aborted motion towards the door. He is only leashed in place by his wolf’s obedience to his alpha.

 

“Cas,” Dean forces himself to put some distance between them, curls his hands into fists before they disobey him again. He welcomes the sharp pain in his palms and the faint scent of his own blood. His wolf laps it in, muzzle red and wet. Dean swallows, find his words.

 

 “Who did you tell?”

 

“Tell what?”

 

Dean’s breath shakes when he inhales, rattling down his throat and settling like something sour and unpleasant behind his heart. He needs to stay calm. It’s Crowley he wants to hurt, not Cas. He is _not_ that kind of man.

 

There’s another knock on the door, but this time Castiel remains still.

 

“Who did you tell you were pregnant, Cas? Who did you tell before you told me, because whoever you told-” his words hurtles out with more sting that he intends and he tries to soften it with a careful pat on Cas’s shoulders.

 

He watches Cas work through his word and make sense of their meaning. The silence lasts for several seconds until he looks up at Dean.

 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Dean.”

 

Dean feels his pulse hammering against his skin and this time he Cas winces as Dean’s fingers dig bruises into his shoulders.

 

“Who did you tell, Cas!” He grabs Castiel’s chin, forces his eyes to his, the movement jarred and angry. The scent of Cas’s anxiety curls like thick ribbons around him, wrapping him up as if it can shield him from his Alpha.

 

“You told somebody you were pregnant, Cas, and whoever you told, told the Hunters how to take you!”

 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Cas remains stiff and unyielding in his arms, “Dean, I can’t remember being-”

 

“Tell me, goddamned it,” he forces his authority through the Bond, a command the omega is hardwired to respond to. Cas’s demeanor goes instantly rigid and he stares at Dean with limpid eyes.

 

“Let him go!”

 

An arm wraps around his shoulders and pulls him back with such force that Dean loses his balance and careens straight into the wall with an impact that makes his vision swims with black spots.

 

“What the hell, Dean!”

 

Dean shakes his head until his vision clears and the scene comes into startling clarity. Cas standing with his arms wrapped around himself, head bent and pain in the hunched set of his shoulders. Pain Dean had caused him.  Breathing becomes a torment as if his body is forcing some kind of toxin through his system.

 

“Shit,” Dean rolls to his feet, “shit, Cas, I didn’t mean-”

 

His path is blocked by the heavy set of Sam’s shoulders.

 

“What’s going on?”  Pamela demands, mouth thinning under hard eyes.

 

Dean flees.

 

He runs, down the corridor, past Samandriel, who is huddling in a corner by the kitchen table. The door rattles on its hinges as he slams it open. Outside he sucks in air, each gasp burning his lungs. He peels out of the driveway and down the streets, his feet going wherever they want to go, his mind beset with the memories of Castiel’s terrified expression. He runs until the only thing he can hear is his own heartbeat in his ears, the blood pounding through his veins. He runs until he thinks he’s going to be sick.

 

Cas can't remember. He had no memory of being pregnant. He can’t remember who he told, or why he didn’t tell Dean. He has no memory of being captured. Of Crowley taking their children. Children. Dean had two pups out there. Had they been born healthy? Was it a boy or a girl? Did it have Cas’s intense, blue eyes or did they favor their father?

A knot twists in his chest, grinding tighter and tighter, choking the lasts breaths out of his body.

 

And then Sam was forcing his head down between his knees, his hand moving to the back of his neck as if he was worried Dean was going to pass out, or…or cry. Sam’s fingers are soft against his neck and Dean closes his eyes to shut out what Sam is saying. He’s not ready to hear it.

 

Just.

 

Not yet.

 

“Feeling better?” Sam murmurs.

 

Dean closes his eyes for a second and pinches the bridge of his nose. He can feel his headache slowly recede until it’s just a dull ebb lingering behind his eyes.

 

“Yeah,” his voice is hoarse and doesn’t even sound like his. “How’s….how is Cas?”

 

Sam’s hand slides from his neck to his back and Dean slowly finds his footing and regains control of his trembling limbs.

 

“He’s fine. A little disorientated. Worried about you.”

 

Dean swallows down a lump in his throat. It might have been his heart. Of course, Cas would be worried about him.

 

“Good,” he wipes a hand across his face. “He’s fine….good.”

 

 His surroundings slowly bleed into focus. He can smell the crisp, cool air and feel the slight tinge of rain in the air against his skin. Stone walls encircle him, green with moss and fern, spiraling upwards to the gap against the darkening sky. He’s in the Moon Caves, standing at the feet at Anna’s grave. The sister Cas might not even remember.

 

“That’s good,” Dean repeats. He’s not sure if Cas will forgive him, or trust him again. Using his dominance as an Alpha to force to Omega into obedience is considered so derogatory that it most Packs forbids even talking about it. Dean didn’t know he was capable of it until something dark and desperate forced it through the Bond.

 

“Dad and Pamela are pissed,” Sam says, his voice cautious as if he’s afraid Dean might snap again.

 

Dean winces. They are probably not as angry as Dean deserves. Shit. He almost hopes his Alpha gives him a good thrashing for being such a despicable whelp.

 

“What…happened? I mean, I understand you’ve been on the edge, that things have been….stressful, but I’ve not seen you….not on Cas,” Sam picks and chooses his words carefully, navigating a fragile path in the hopes that Dean might actually talk to him. Dean’s hardly the master of his own emotions and has always apprehensive of putting them into words.

 

Dean fights a brief, losing, war with his head and his heart. Parts of him feels too embarrassed about his own actions and just wants to pretend it happens.  Another part of him burns with the shame of it and wonders how he can ever live with it. Being upset and stressed is hardly an excuse.

 

“I was talking to Samandriel,” Dean turns so he doesn’t have to see the look on Sam’s face. It’s easier, somehow, to talk to Anna’s grave. She deserves to know just as much as Sam.

 

He forces his voice to remain calm, controls every consonant.

 

“He said Cas was pregnant. That’s why the Collector wanted him.”

 

“What?” Sam chokes.

 

“Samandriel and Cas shared a cage,” Dean wets his lips, “they probably thought companionship would keep him calm through- Samandriel was there when Crowley took him away to, to-”

 

His voice shakes as his imagination provides all too vivid details of what follows. Castiel strapped to stretcher and wheeled into an operating room. The yellow light across his stretched skin, the scalpel slicing into his flesh. Crowley’s surgeon had plucked their pup from the safety and warmth of the womb as if it was a commodity to be harvested.

 

Sam curses and Dean hears the sound of pebbles skidding across the ground.

 

“If…if I had known, I would have put a bullet between his eyes, consequences be damned,” Sam mutters darkly.

 

“Crowley sold it,” Dean says in a numb voice. Suddenly he feels desperately tired as if somebody has carved out his very soul and left him hollow. He doesn’t have the strength to….feel anything anymore.

 

Sam curses again, “I’m going to kill that bastard.”

 

“Cas bit the arm off one of Crowley’s guys, the one who…took them away. That’s why they put the silver collar on him, to punish him.”

 

Sam’s rage is as palpable as the rain in the air, sharp and cold.

 

“Remember when we found “Jane,” Dean says, steering the conversation away from Crowley. His time will come. Later.

 

“Yeah,” Sam answers, “the Hunter who caught Cas.”

 

“She said that that Cas was a rush job, but that it was easy because they got all this information about him, the Territory, and the Pack.”

 

“I remember,” Sam says, “it must have been somebody from inside the Territory. Somebody who knows Cas well.”

 

“Cas must have confided in somebody,” Dean says, “he told somebody he was pregnant and…and that person called the Hunters.”

 

“Shit.”

 

Sam rakes his hands through his hair.

 

“But Cas doesn’t remember anything,” Dean continues, “he remembers me, kinda, but….everything else is blank. He doesn’t even remember that he was pregnant.”

 

“There can’t have been too many Cas would have told, I mean….before he told you. Why didn’t he tell you?”

 

Dean moves away from the grave, walks across the ground, glass crunching under his shoes. He shuffles a step to the side and looks down at the shards in the grass. He remembers the champagne flutes Sam and he found in what seems like ages ago.

 

“I can only assume they took him before he got to tell me,” Dean mumbles. Had he been planning to surprise Dean here with the news on the day the Hunter took him? It hurt too much to think about it.

 

“Then we need to just make a list of possibilities and eliminate them,” Sam says, “as you said, it won’t be a long list. There couldn’t have been that many people would have confined such a big news with before he shared them with you.”

 

Dean is quiet, already making a list in his head and making it shorter. Cas had been friendly with everyone in their Pack, it was impossible for him not to be. But he wasn’t really close to all that many. Anna, Jess, and Sam, but none of them would have betrayed him. Charlie and Victor were among the first people Cas knew, but Dean wasn’t sure if Cas would have confided such an important news with them. There was a girl that he worked with, Dean remembers, Hannah and Cas had always spoken fondly of her. Would he have told her? Did he any contact with any from his former Pack?

 

“You look exhausted,” Sam says, slinging an arm around his shoulder, “we should get back you need to make nice with Cas and then you should probably eat something and try to sleep.”

 

“We need to find it, Sam,” Dean says, “find it, and make the bastard pay for doing this.”

 

Sam’s grip on his shoulders tightens, “yes, we will, Dean,” he murmurs, “but you also need to take care of Cas. You are the only one he knows and he needs you, especially when he starts remembering.”

 

They leave the Moon Cave and Anna’s grave behind as they  slowly make their way home. A light rain begins to caress their backs as the wind picks up. Dean feels the Wolf’s blood burn in his veins. The full moon is only two nights away. Somewhere out there, somebody else has his pup.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sorry for the delay in updating, but work was suddenly kicking my ass. Now 186 grades later, term has finally finished and I am able to write again.

**Chapter 20.**

 

It takes several round of promises that he’s calmed down and that he will never, ever, hurt, Cas in any way, before Pamela lets him back in. Despite his most heartfelt insistences, Pamela isn’t fully convinced and Dean feels her gaze burn a hole in his back as he opens the door to the bedroom.

 

Cas is sitting on the edge of the bed, his hands curling and uncurling into the blanket, staring at the wall with a far away, lost, look in his eyes. His scent is brittle, tinted with a fear and unease and it makes Dean’s chest clench uncomfortably, knowing that he's the cause.

 

He clears his throat to break the silence. Cas turns slowly towards him, pushing himself to his feet and takes hold of the bed frame to keep his balance. He looks frail, like the smallest gust of wind could knock him over.

 

“Dean-”

 

“Hey, Cas,” Dean takes a step, two, three, before the distance between them is closed. “I’m sorry,” he says, forcing his hands to remain still. The memory of digging his fingers into Cas’s shoulder is all too vivid in his mind.

 

“It’s fine-” Cas starts, but Dean interrupts him before he can finish, “no, Cas, it’s not fine.”

 

“I was-” Dean wipes a hand across his eyes, in an attempt to wipe away the images of Cas’s frightened expression. “ It’s been….it’s been a difficult couple of days and I was upset, but that’s no excuse!”

 

His eyes find Cas’ shimmering blue orbs locking on his. “I feel horrible about what I did, and I’m pretty sure I’m going to feel horrible about it for the rest of my life, but,” he wets his lips, “I need you to know that I am truly, deeply, sorry for…for the way I behaved. I...you're my mate and I love you and- I will never hurt you, or…or frighten you. I swear.”

 

“I know,” Cas says earnestly, “I mean, the Bond tells me so.” He places a hand over his heart and touches his fingertips lightly to Dean’s. “It’s….so strange, because I don’t remember us, or this room, or….even myself.” Cas' fingers curl into a claw against Dean's chest and Dean abandons his fight with his hands and lets them settle loosely on Cas’s elbow.

 

“I don’t remember you, not….everything, clearly,” Cas repeats, “but I know that I know you, that we share this profound Bond and it tells me that we belong together, that...that this is home.”

 

Dean swallows around a lump in his throat.

 

“Shit, Cas,” his voice cracks, but it doesn’t break, “I’m so sorry.”

 

Cas closes the last inches separating them. Dean feels their Bond flare to life, warm and brilliant and dazzling. He slides his hands from Cas’s elbows to curl loosely around his back, cradling him against his chest. It grounds Dean more than it comforts Cas. It’s an echo of their first hug and Dean closes his eyes against the sensation of Cas’s warm breath against the dip of his neck. He nuzzles into soft strands of his hair and makes a compromise with his Wolf’s desire to lick their mate, and places a kiss on Cas’s forehead. Behind his closed eyes, Dean can see their dark path expand in front of them, the hurdles and pitfalls in their path to….not recovery, not really, Cas’s experience isn’t something he can just work through and get over. It’ll always be a part of him, a part of them, but it doesn’t need to be the only thing that defines who they are.

 

“I’m sorry I can’t remember,” Cas mumbles into Dean’s shirt. Dean’s heart stumbles a little at Cas’s quiet words and Dean’s arm squeezes him closer.

 

“We’ll find our pup,” Dean promises. He sees Cas’s head dip in a nod, feels a damp patch spreading across his chest.  He slides his hand up and down Cas’s spine, feels every bone and bump, the soft slide of muscles against his palm as Cas quietly trembles. Anger coils along his spine, but he’s careful to keep it from leaking into the Bond. Instead, he lets it settle and simmer somewhere deep and dark where it feeds and nourishes his Wolf.

 

Dean swears that this time around he won’t let his emotions and instincts take control of him. He’s going to find their pup and bring them home, and he’s going to do everything he can to support his mate. He is never going to let anything or anybody hurt him. In the back of his mind, where his Wolf prowls, he promises the creature that they will find the people responsible for Cas's pain and they will make them regret it for the rest of their short and miserable life.

In the back of his mind, where his Wolf prowls, he promises the creature that they will find the people responsible for Cas's pain and they will make them regret it for the rest of their short and miserable life.

  

Afterwards, when Cas is tucked under the covers, his eyes tinted red, but their Bond warm and content in his chest, he goes to find Samandriel.

 

Samandriel is still sitting in the kitchen, white knuckles wrapped around a cup of coffee. His eyes dart up as Dean enters the room and Dean raises his hands in a placating way before the omega can leap to his feet. He owns Samandriel an apology too.

 

“Have you seen Sam and Jess?”

 

Samandriel relaxes his grip on the cup and nods, “they went out to get something to eat. Pizza, I think.”

 

“Alright,” Dean takes a deep breath, “I’m going to go and fetch my dad and find Pamela, and then you’re going to have to tell the story again.”

 

“Okay,” Samandriel shrinks a little in his seat, “how is Cas doing?”

 

“He’s asleep.”

 

"Alright," Samandriel nods into his cup. Dean takes a step away from the table to put some distance between the alpha and the omega. "Look, I'm sorry for...for the way I behaved."

 

Samandriel chews on his lower lip, his eyes still not meeting Dean's. "It's okay, Dean," he says, "I mean, you were upset and..."

 

"-and I took it out on you and that's....that's not who I am. I'm sorry, really."

 

Samandriel gives him a little smile and nods again.

 

A few minutes later, Sam and Jess arrive, carrying three boxes of pizza and the smell of roasted meat and grilled cheese. Sam dredges up a diluted smile when he sees Dean and shakes his head at his brother’s silent question. No, he’s not told Jess yet. A few minutes later, John arrives and devours half a pizza and two bottles of beer. The conversation around the table is stilted, despite Jess’ best effort. Dean picks at his food, the pizza crust and cheese, growing doughy and slimy in his mouth.

 

Dean fights to keep his face blank, because Samandriel’s unease lies like a thick cloud around the table and puts both alphas wolves on edge.

 

When Sam has finished the last slice, Dean pushes his plate away. He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment to gathers his thoughts, until he feels calm enough to put them into words, “there’s….something we need to talk about.”

 

He flicks his eyes across the table to Samandriel, and with an encouraging nod, the omega launches into the story again.

 

Dean thought it might be easier to hear it a second time, but it’s not.

But, he is able to pay more attention to the details and several times he interrupts Samandriel to ask for the particulars. What did the guards look like? What about the doctor who treated Cas? Did Crowley talk to them? Did he see or hear about other Collectors? Did they ever talk about how they learned about Cas?

 

Samandriel answers his questions, but he doesn't know anything more than what he told Dean the first time.  When he nears the part where Cast is pregnant, his words starts to stumble along with the jittery beat of his feet against the floor. Jess sits, pale and trembling, clutching her husband’s hand while John’s grip leaves dents in the kitchen table.

 

It takes Samandriel almost an hour to repeat his account. Dean braces himself for what is coming feels his heart galloping in his chest like a pack of wild horses threatening to crush him under their hooves. Jess tries to stifle her horrified gasp behind her hands, twisting her face to hide it against Sam’s shoulder. Dean feels his father’s anger and knows John is second away from overturning the table. A heartbeat away from shifting.

 

“Well, I am going to check on Castiel,” Pamela says with a voice laced with thinly concealed fury. She pushes her chair away with more force than strictly necessary, hiding her expression in her long hair as she hurries down the corridor.

 

Dean waits until he hears the soft click of the bedroom door. “We’ll need to retrace Cas’s steps in the days before he was captured,” Dean says. “Last time, we just…just concentrated on where Cas might have gone, I mean-” he swallows down the words of his own failure. There will be time to dwell on them later.

 

“He must have confided in somebody,” Dean explains, “the Hunter said that Cas had to be taken that day, probably because he hadn’t told me yet and if he had-”

 

“Yeah, he must have told somebody, ” Sam continues, “the picture they had of Cas in their files wasn’t one that had been taken a distance, you know, without Cas knowing he was being photographed. It was staged, I saw part of Dean’s arm in it, which means that it was taken by somebody in our Pack and handed to the Collectors.”

 

John doesn’t even bother to try and restrain his string of curses.

 

“One in our Pack,” he growls, “who’d dare to do something so…” he flounders, lost for words until Jesse finishes his sentence with a curt “vile.”

 

“There are only a couple of people Cas might have confided in,” Dean says, “his former co-worker, Hannah. Victor, Charlie-”

 

“Charlie would never do anything like this,” Jess says hotly. Sam places a hand on his wife’s shoulder and gives it a gentle squeeze.

 

“Right. I agree, we can rule Charlie out,” Dean adds, “so there’s Victor and Hannah.”

 

“And …whoever sold Cas the pregnancy test. I mean, how else would Cas know he was pregnant?”

 

“I’m not sure if I remember who the pharmacists were back then,” John says.

 

“Pamela is the Pack Healer if you think-”

 

“No,” Jess shakes her head, “I mean, he could have gone to the Clinic, right?”

 

Dean hadn’t considered this possibility.

 

Cas had been feeling under the weather for a couple of days, but his tolerance for discomfort was fairly high, it would take a lot for him to seek a Healer. The threshold for seeking advice at the free Clinic was lower. It was open three days a week and operated under a strict protocol of anonymity. A Healer would have demanded that Cas’s alpha be present, but the Clinic, however, would not.

 

“Alright, so, I’ll guess I’ll just start with talking to Hannah,“ Dean says.

 

“Be nice,” Jess adds, “just so… you know, she’s an omega, she’s bound to feel….intimidated.” She softens her words with a smile, but Dean knows that she’s secretly worried that he won’t be able to control his instincts. That he might suddenly Shift again, if he does it in public, they won´t be able to protect him.

 

It’s a reasonable concern. After all, Dean shares it too.

 

 

The next morning, Dean’s hand skims across the mattress towards Cas’s back and finds the bed empty. For a heartbeat, he’s gripped with a terrifying panic that everything was just a dream, that they never rescued Cas and brought him home. His heart doesn’t still until he picks up the soft voices of Cas and Pamela drifting through the house. Dean wipes the nightmare out off his eyes and swings his legs over the side of the bed. 

 

The scent of fried eggs and bacon draws Dean towards the kitchen.

He dresses quietly in a pair of grey slacks and a t-shirt and pads barefoot through the house. The sight of the empty living room makes him cringe and he wonders how long his dad’s arrangement with the owners is going to last. He’s already dreading explaining to Cas that the one place he vaguely remembers is just theirs to borrow because Dean wasn’t able to keep paying the bills.

 

Dean finds Cas and Pamela sitting at the kitchen table. Cas is dressed in the same clothes as yesterday, but this time, the sweater is not back to front. Cas is shuffling eggs around with a fork clutched awkwardly in his hand as if he isn’t quite sure how to correctly handle the tool.

 

“Hey,” Dean announces his presence and both Cas and Pamela turns to greet him with a smile. “Good morning, Dean,” Pamela says and gives an encouraging nod to Cas, gesturing to the grip on her fork.

 

“How did you sleep?” Dean slides into the free chair next to Cas and starts shoveling food onto his own plate.

 

“It was…fine,” Cas says through a mouthful of eggs, his face set in a quizzical expression as though he’s relearning their taste.

 

“Cas and I were talking about his rehabilitation program,” Pamela says calmly. Dean’s stomach twists into an uncomfortable knot.

 

"Yeah?"

 

"We´re going to spend the day doing.....tests," Cas tells his plate. Dean reaches across the table to place his hand on Cas´s. Their Bond thrills at the contact and it makes Cas´s lips twitch into a small smile.

 

"It´s going to be alright," Dean says, squeezing his hand, "Pamela just needs....to know where to start."

 

Cas nods and slides his hand free from Dean´s grip to return to the fork.

 

"I am going to take a short walk into town," Dean says, "I´m going to talk to Hannah."

 

"Hannah?" Cas asks.

 

"An old friend," Dean quietly assures him, "I´ll be back before lunch. Want me to bring you something, your favorite coffee?"

 

Cas considers this for a moment before he shakes his head. Dean forces himself to smile. He doesn´t need Pamela´s glare to tell him he´s an idiot.

 

 

Dean has only met Hannah a couple of times, picking Cas up from work and during a few Territory meetings. Cas always spoke fondly of her, but he never invited her over for dinner, even at Dean’s urging. She was part of the search group that looked for Cas the first few weeks he was missing, but like many others, (Dean included), she drifted away when the seasons changed.

 

It’s a clear, crisp morning; those days when spring likes to remind you that it can it can every bit as cold winter if it wants to. The streets are empty and in the distance, he picks up the chime of the school’s bell summoning the pupils for the first class of the day. Dean yanks up the collar of his jacket and shoves his hands into his pockets to shield them from the wind. He tries not to think about the scene he left at the kitchen table: Cas frowning the letters Pamela had written out and trying to form their sounds. Cas, the old Cas, loves to read, but Dean fears that The Hunters and Collectors have managed to steal that from him too.

 

Dean shoves away a myriad of other thoughts churning through his mind. Samandriel’s terrified eyes, Jesse’s nervous smile, his railing against Cas and his inability to remember what happened to the pup. He can even feel it now, like an itch under his skin; his Wolf is always simmering near the surface, ready to burst forth at the slightest provocation. He’s lucky, Dean thinks, that he hasn’t harmed anybody and that everybody has been so forgiving. That Cas forgave him. He’s not certain how generous they will be if he does end up injuring somebody in an uncontrolled Shift. It would mean that he violated one of the oldest tenets of the Shifters, the laws and rules they put down to govern themselves and make themselves fit in this ever shrinking world.

 

He’s arranged to meet Hannah in a small diner across the street from the library where Cas and she used to work. He stops outside the door, takes a deep breath and restrains his Wolf, determined not to lose his cool.

 

Even though the smell of spices of teas, coffee and the sweet trickle of pastries, Dean can scent her unease. He doesn’t know if it’s because she’s an omega and he’s an alpha or if it’s something else.

 

Hannah has her hands wrapped around a large, green, cup of coffee, her eyes seemingly locked on its content. She’s clad in a beige duffle coat and on the table sits a grey woolly hat and a pair of matching gloves. The smile she gives him is stilted, forced, and Dean pretends he doesn’t notice it.

 

“Morning,” he says, calm, easy, like they are old friends meeting up for a casual cup of coffee before heading off to work.

 

“Morning, Dean,” Hannah answers, speaking mostly to her empty cup and doing her best to not to inch her chair further away. Dean keeps his strained smile and soothes his Wolf. It’s picking up on Hannah’s unease and echoing the emotions, even if it doesn’t understand why she’s anxious.

 

“Let me just get a cup of coffee, do you want a refill?”  Hannah won’t look at him, even as she nods her yes.

 

Dean shrugs off his jacket and drapes it over the back of a chair before moving towards the counter. He doesn’t know the name of the beta minding the till, but the young man is all smiles and charms as he speaks about the process of brewing as though Dean has any idea what he’s talking about. A few minutes later, Dean places a cup of steaming coffee in front of Hannah.

 

“Thanks,” she says, wrapping her hands around the cup, but doing nothing else. Dean takes a sip of his coffee, pretends he isn’t reading every motion she’s telegraphing, even as she’s sitting still at the table. Apprehensive. Unease. Anxiousness. Maybe even guilt.

 

“I’m so glad you got Cas back, safely,” she speaks when the silence becomes too uncomfortable.

 

“Yeah,” Dean replies.

 

Hannah lowers her head, her shoulders hitching up to her ears, “ I heard…. I heard he had been taken by Hunters, sold to Collectors.”

 

Rumors have always moved quickly in the Territory, so Dean’s not surprised that Hannah’s so well informed about Cas’s situation.

 

“Yes.”

 

Hannah is quiet again for a few minutes, her hands clenching and unclenching around the cup. Dean watches her, his Wolf poised.

 

“So, what was it you wanted to talk about?”

 

Dean clears his throat and takes a sip of coffee to give himself the time he needs to properly structure his words.

 

“I’m….there’s something,” he stops, starts again, “we think,” he lowers his voice and Hannah inches slightly forward, “that somebody from the Territory sold information about Cas to the Hunters.”

 

Hannah yanks back as if he’s just slapped her. She grows visibly paler, but only for a second before her red, angry, flecks heat her face.

 

“Who…who would do such a horrible thing?”

Her voice is a snarl that makes Dean’s Wolf bare its teeth in agreement.

 

“When we….looked for Cas, we worked under the assumption that he might have…” Dean’s throat works against the words for a few seconds before they spill out, “that he might have left on his own accord.”

 

Hannah’s gaze darts to the floor and she nods. It’s what they all had assumed when the days grew shorter and there were no signs of Cas. There hadn’t been any evidence, any clues to tell them otherwise. It’s why so many had been quick to dismiss his disappearance. It’s why Dean had given up.

 

“Now that…now we’re trying to figure out who might have…betrayed him. Sold him.” Dean feels the china tremble under his fingers and gently eases grip on the cup.

 

“You think that I-“

 

“No,” Dean raises his palms to halt the rest of Hannah’s words. “No, I don’t think you would have done anything to hurt Cas.” He knows it’s true. They are both omegas and Dean can’t imagine Hannah having any part of handing Cas over to Collectors when she knows all too well the fate of omegas in their care.

 

Hannah slumps back in her seat and closes her eyes, her breath falling into an even rhythm. The Wolf calms, curls itself up somewhere in Dean’s mind, still watchful, but no longer a loaded spring, ready to attack.

 

“There’s something else, though.”

 

Hannah opens her eyes and studies Dean. He’s not sure what she reads in his expression, but she’s unable to look at him for more than a few seconds before her gaze slinks to the ground.

 

These words are even more difficult to speak. They are barbed, vicious things, which makes Dean’s chest curdle with guilt and anger. They took this from Cas- Cas doesn’t even remember it. They took it from Dean, who didn’t even know what he had lost. And there’s this vicious voice in his mind that keeps telling Dean that this is his fault. He’s an alpha, he is Cas’s mate, he swore to protect him, but he let the hunter take him from the safety of their Territory, hide him in the trunk of the car- the car that Dean fixed so that the hunter could drive away and collect her reward.

 

Across the table, Hannah is watching him, so Dean must shove all of these thoughts away and focus on why he’s here.

 

“Hannah, did Cas…” Dean grabs hold of the edge of the table uses it to anchors his emotions so they don’t spill from him and leaves the Wolf in charge.

 

“The Collectors took Cas because he was pregnant. Did he…did he tell you that he was expecting?”

 

The sounds of the coffee maker, the clatter of cutlery on plates, the quiet hum of the other guests, the muted tunes from a radio in the kitchen, all of it fades away and Dean is certain that his heart is trying to crawl its way out of his chest. Hannah stares at him, her eyes impossibly large, and her lips a thin, angry slant.

 

“No,” she says, fingers curling against the table. “No, he didn’t tell me. I didn’t know.” The unspoken, “you didn’t know either,” finishes itself in Dean’s head.

 

Dean takes a deep breath, “the days before Cas was taken, do you….do you remember if he acted…strange, or nervous or-“

 

Hannah frowns and Dean keeps silent, letting her sort through her memories without his interference.

 

“I didn’t really see him much,” Hannah says, “he got let off, due to budget reasons, my hours increased, but my pay didn’t. I was really busy, trying to keep the library afloat and…well, I felt kinda guilty, because I got to keep my job and Cas lost his.” She swallows, takes a sip of her coffee, even if it must be cold by now.

 

“I only saw him in passing, you know, a nodding to him at the street. I saw him with Victor a couple of times, here, at this diner.” She gestures her head to the corner booth and Dean glances over, half expecting to see Victor and Cas together.

 

“Omegas and alphas aren’t really….they can’t really be friends, you know. Too many….too many instincts and hormones complicating things. But, I understand their friendship was a bit…unconventional.”

 

Hannah’s words breaths live into old memories, gathering dust at the back of Dean’s mind. Victor had been… wanting  to court Cas at the Gathering. He had been about to introduce him to the Pack. But he’d forfeit any right to continue the courtship after he failed to step up to Alistair’s challenge. It had been a serious blow to Victor’s pride and the alpha had been slinking around for months before he seemed to manage to pick himself up. Cas only ever talked about him as an extension of Dean’s friends, had never acted awkward or anxious around him. Victor had never mentioned the Gathering, and he had seemed genuinely pleased at their Bonding and distressed at Cas’s disappearance.

 

“Yeah, they were….friendly,” Dean says because Cas was only ever friendly. With everyone. “When did you see them together?”

 

Hannah cards her fingers through her hair, “twice, I think, a couple of weeks before Cas disappeared and the last time…three days, before I think. They seemed… you know, friendly. Having lunch, talking. Cas was smiling, like...I don´t know....he seemed happy.”

 

Dean swallows down the bile that’s building in his throat.

 

Victor had never mentioned that he had lunch with Cas only three days before he vanished. If it had been an innocent lunch like Hannah thinks it was, why hadn’t Victor told him?

 

The thoughts won’t stop nagging him, even as he bids goodbye to Hannah, with her promising to stop by in a few days to visit Cas.  Victor had been in the first search party; he’d stopped by every day the first two weeks to help look for Cas. Even when after he had used up his free hours at work, he still spent all his free time involved in the search. It seemed impossible that he would have…have sold Cas to the Hunters and still keep up this facade.

 

By the time he’s home, Dean has always managed to convince himself that he’s reading far too much into a shared lunch between Victor and Cas.  In the corridor he kicks off his shoes and hangs his jacket up on the peg, noticing that Pamela’s coat is the only one still there. He wonders where Samandriel has gone and hopes that Jess and Sam are taking care of him, as Dean’s doing such a shitty job of it.

 

From the kitchen, he picks up the rhythmic burr of Cas’s heartbeat, slow and even, the pace of his mate being asleep. Relief flutters his eyes closed and Dean braces himself against the counter, lets his heart, his mind, his Wolf, enjoy the sensation of their mate, safely back in their home where he belongs. Even if their home doesn’t belong to them anymore, even if Dean lost that as well, he swears he’ll make a new one for them, somewhere, somehow. That he will bring their pup home and spend the rest of his life, every inch he has, to ensure that they are safe.

 

Pamela is sitting in the living room, her pen moving across the paper, several books spread out on the coffee table. Dean skims their titles, sees that it’s all about coping with PTSD, treatment strategies, how to relearn critical skills, trauma recovery.

 

“Hey,” Dean says, his voice thick and uncomfortable.

 

“Hello, Dean,” Pamela closes her notebook and tucks her pencil behind her ear. “How did you talk with Hannah go?”

 

Dean shrugs a little before sliding into an empty chair, “she couldn’t really tell me much. I’m going to see the Clinic tomorrow, and then figure out how to find Victor.”

 

“You should let me talk to the people at the Clinic,” Pamela says, “there’s such a thing as a doctor-patient confidentiality, they won’t tell you anything, even if you are his alpha and mate.”

 

“Right,” Dean says. That hadn’t even occurred to him. “Thanks. How is Cas?”

 

Pamela locks her fingers together and rests her hands on her knees. She studies Dean for a long moment like she’s still looking for the idiot who almost….almost attacked Cas. Dean’s grateful for the scrutiny, glad that Pamela is so protective of Cas, even if she’s thinking about protecting him from his mate.

 

“He’s asleep,” Pamela says, “he’s frustrated by all the things he doesn’t know.” He hands Dean her notebook and Dean accepts it, stares at the odd scribbles covering the page.

 

“I asked him to write his name,” Pamela says, “procedural memory doesn’t work the same as the rest of our memories. I thought maybe his…hand would remember how to write his name, even if his brain didn’t.”

 

Dean cringes and forces his Wolf to remain calm. “You said that the…the things we don’t really need to know how to do is the first to disappear.”

 

Pamela nods, “yes, the brain would have shut down what it considered none essential first. Cas doesn’t remember how to read, write, or do sums. There are certain items he doesn’t remember how to use, like how to turn on the kettle, how to tie his shoes, the names of people in your Pack. He has only vague memories of his sister, of his old pack.”

 

“He doesn’t know his sister is dead,” Dean says softly, “she died last winter. I don’t know how to tell him.”

 

“We shouldn’t put too much on at once,” Pamela says, “some things may return on its own as his mind regains balance with the Wolf. Some things he must relearn from scratch.”

 

“Right,” Dean runs a hand over his face, “but he’ll be alright?”

 

Pamela’s expression is pinched, but not unsympathetic as looks at Dean. “He might never be alright, Dean. And you can’t expect him to be. He might recover, relearn skills and learn to cope- but the trauma he has experienced, it might not always be a part of him, but it will always be with him.”

 

“That’s not what I-“ Dean bites back the rest of his words. He’s not really sure what he meant to say. He didn’t think that just having Cas back, mean…having him back.

 

“I’ll do whatever it takes,” Dean says, “to help him. Whatever he needs.”

 

Pamela presses her lips to a thin line. Dean can’t tell if she believes him, but in the end, it’s Cas who needs convincing.

 

“Good,” Pamela says softly with a hint of a smile, “it’ll be difficult, for both of you.”

 

Dean stares at the books until the titles swim in front of his eyes. He shakes his head until his vision clears.

 

“I’m going to check on Cas, and then head over to my dad’s.”

 

Pamela nods dismissingly and returns her attention to her books.

 

Dean slips quietly into their bedroom. Cas is sleeping, curled up on his side; the covers gripped tightly in his hands and pulled up under his chin. Dean stands by his side for a spell, drinks in the sight of him and gently brushes an errant lock of hair away from his eyes. Cas’s nose twitches, but he doesn’t stir and Dean is careful to not wake him as he closes the door behind him.

 

 

 


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the support you guys are giving me! This is mostly a filler chapter, until we get on to the last few chapters. As always, this is not beta read.

**See tags for warning.**

**Chapter 21.**

  
It’s too early for it to be called morning. The sky is still dark with rolling clouds and the promise of rain. Not even the most enthusiastic of morning birds has bothered to wake up and bid them farewell.

“Morning, Dean,” Charlie yawns, cradling biggest travel mug Dean has ever seen.

“Morning´,” Dean replies, shifting aside to make room for Bobby, who is grumbling something about coffee and cigarettes.

“You about ready?” He asks Charlie. Charlie nods and passes her backpack into Bobby’s waiting hands.

Dean watches Bobby throw their bags into the backseat of his old pickup truck before slamming the door close. He’s itching to grab his own bag, the one he packed last night, just in case John changed his mind.

“Where’s John?”Bobby asks.

“Right here,” John answers as he steps out on the porch. Unlike the others, he looks remarkably well rested, even though he was up all night planning the trip and fending off Dean’s insisting arguments.

“Dad-“ Dean tries, but John’s only response is to clasp his shoulder, “we’ve already had this discussion,” he says, “the answer is still no.”

Dean tries to anchor his frustration into his fists. As far as he is concerned, the conversation isn't over.

“Dad-“

Bobby clears his throat loudly and then mumbles something about coffee. He nudges Charlie’s arm in passing, before disappearing into the house. Charlie is quick to follow, bobbing her head to Dean in a quiet apology. Dean knows it’s an excuse to avoid witnessing the awkward father-son-moment and he’s grateful for the lack of spectators.

There will be no help from either Bobby or Charlie. Not that he can blame them, a wolf that goes against the Alpha’s order must be prepared to suffer the unpleasant consequences. But this isn't just Dean's Alpha, he's also Dean's /dad/.

John takes a deep breath, squares his shoulders and closes the distance between them with two heavy steps.

Dean folds his arms over his chest, “I should go with you.”

“We’ve talked about this,” John says with a sliver of anger in his voice. He's not used to being defied, not even by his strong-willed and stubborn son.

“Dad,” Dean starts. He pauses. Takes a breath. He’s got a whole speech lined up, how this is his responsibility, that Victor is...was his friend and that can’t just sit at home and do nothing.

"No, Dean. We're not having this discussion again."

Dean remembers the terse argument they’ve been fighting for the past two days. It had put the entire house on edge and made Cas take shelter in their bedroom until Pamela had given them a stern talking to and sent them all outside. Dean’s stomach had been wrecked with guilt, and he'd apologised profusely to both Cas and Pamela. But he's not about to give up the battle.

This is about Dean’s mate and their pup. They kept him in the loop about Cas’s condition. They made him a benchwarmer during the rescue mission. The wolf hates how his Alpha has put him on the sideline, again and again. Hates how he had been told to stay behind and wait. Sit. Heel. Like he's a dog. They’ve kept Dean at arm’s length, carefully guarding their words in case-

-In case, he’ll lose it again. In case, he will hurt somebody like he hurt Sam and like he almost hurt Jesse.

The memory makes Dean’s heart throb with pain. His hand on Sam, curling into claws. Sam’s wide eyes, the stench of his fear fueling Dean’s anger. The wolf prowls restlessly against the edges of Dean’s subconscious. It relished in Sam's fear, it wants to see the same fear in the Alpha's eyes. Put the old wolf in its place and let the younger, fiercer alpha take over and-

Dean squeezes his eyes shut so hard he sees stars. He searches for his Bond, lets it wrap around the wolf until it's tethered.

“Dad, I need to go with you.”

John sighs and turns to look at his son. He looks suddenly old and worn, the lines around his face more prominent, the gleam in his eyes fading.

“Dean-“ he places a hand on Dean’s shoulder again, squeezes hard. Once.

“Castiel needs you here, Dean,” John says. His hand on Dean’s shoulder is warm and heavy, digging into the fabric of his shirt, “- your mate needs you here. “

“Dad, there’s nothing….” he swallows the words back towards the black pit in his chest where they belong. There’s nothing he can do for Cas.

Yesterday Cas had remembered he had a sister and Dean had to take him to Anna’s grave. He’d stared at the simple, carved inscription, rooted to the spot as Dean stuttered his way through the story of Anna’s final days. Dean skipped over certain parts. How she’d sat for days on their porch, waiting for Cas. Her restless pacing in their backyard, the anxious shake of her body when night fell. Once, she’d disappeared for a week, until Dean found her, wet and cold in the Moon Cave.

Instead, he told Cas how most of the Pack showed up to pay their respect. How John had said the final words and how Dean dug her grave and buried her with Cas’s blanket.

Cas had remained by her grave for almost an hour, his gaze locked with nothing, lost to Dean in some memory of his sister.

Eventually, it grew cold and Dean watched a light drizzle of rain ran rivulets down Cas’s neck. Cas took a shaky breath. Dean wrapped an arm carefully around his mate’s shoulders. Cas had remained still and listless, the only contact between them had been their Bond. He led Cas home, steered him through a warm shower and tucked him into bed, where Cas curled up on his side, hands tucked under his cheek and his back to Dean.

Cas’s grief is a real and solid wall between them and Dean doesn’t know how to get through it, around it or above it.

“There’s nothing I can do here,” Dean confesses to John, quiet and harsh and grim. “Pamela is helping him with his exercises and I just…. Just can’t stand watching him…”

Watch him work through his grief. Can’t watch him struggle to tie his own shoes. Can’t watch him stutter through the sentences of a children’s book. Can’t watch his clumsy attempt to carve his own name into a piece of paper. Can’t watch him lose his thoughts halfway through a sentence, or fumble with a word, staring sightlessly at something far away.

“I know it’s hard, son,” John says, his voice oddly soft, “but this is ten times worse for Castiel.”

“I know,” Dean sighs, his stomach churning unpleasantly with guilt, “but I should be out there, looking for our pup and the people who took him! Not…idling about in this..place, playing house like nothing happened like this is..…this isn’t even our home!” Dean wipes a hand down his face and twists away from John’s grip. “What’s going to happen when I tell him that the only place he feels remotely at ease isn’t even ours anymore because I-“

Dean bites back the rest of his words, steels himself. He’s not going to lose his composure in front of his dad. Dean gather’s the threads of his temper. He’s failed in so many ways, he’s only got this to keep himself together.

“I was going to wait until later,” John murmurs, “but maybe this will give you some peace of mind. I bought the house back for you.”

“You…what?”

“I made a deal with the owner, traded this house for mine.”

“Dad-“

“Listen, son, it’s no big deal. That house was too big for me and Sam and I talked about it, we’re going to convert the top of the barn into a loft, and it’ll be all that I need.”

Dean forces his eyes shut and bites his lip until he can feel the tangy taste of blood in his mouth. He feels raw and empty inside like he doesn’t know what to feel. Gratitude for John helping him out when Dean screwed up. Again. Embarrassment for needing the help in the first place. Anger, for making John trade his home, the one he shared with Mary and Dean and Sam, to give Cas and Dean back theirs.

John squeezes his shoulder once and lets go, leaving Dean to battle through his myriad of emotions.

“What if….what if you find the people responsible,” Dean growls, grabbing John’s arm before he can walk away “then I need to be there too-“

John turns on his heel, his eyes narrowing to slits. “I’m not saying your anger isn’t justified,” his father’s eyes darkened and for the first time in his life, Dean saw something there that made his wolf tuck its tail behind its leg and retreat. “The pup is our Pack, my blood and nobody is going-“

The last words linger between them, unspoken, heavy with the promise of revenge.

“We will call you as soon as we learn anything, Dean. I know that this is important to you.”

Dean can only muster a nod.

Ten minutes later, Bobby and Charlie return, carrying a thermos of coffee and a box of sandwiches that Jesse prepared for them last night.

“All set?”

“Yeah,” Dean says, swallowing around some words that lump in his throat.

Charlie yawns and throws her arms around Dean for one last hug.

“Do you remember how to use the email I set up?” she asks.

“Yeah,” Dean says meekly, “if not, I am pretty sure Sam does.”

“Good,” Charlie smiles, “I’ll keep you updated, but you know how these things go, Pack politics and everything,” she wrinkles her nose in disgust and clambers into the back of the car.

“Politics is necessary to keep things civil,” Bobby lectures. “Without them, we would have destroyed each other years ago.”

Charlie rolls her eyes and tucks a jacket under her head, “wake me up when we’re there, yeah?”

“We’ll contact you when we have some news,” John promises, “but it’ll likely take a few days.”

Dean nods. He knows that there’s protocol and traditions to observe and that John can’t just march into another Territory and demand answers. It’s what Dean wants to do, even if it’s a shortcut to rekindling ancient conflicts and spark another Blood Feud.

His dad climbs in behind the wheel, Bobby in the passenger seat. The car hums to life and pulls slowly out of the driveway. Dean watches them leave, watches until the car disappears around a swing, his hands stuffed into pockets to hide his claws, his chest churning with anger.

  
The next few days slides by at an excruciating pace.

Every night, Dean is jolted awake by Cas’s nightmares. Sometimes Cas will just toss and turn, murmuring incoherent nonsenses. It is easy to wake him from these dreams. All Dean has to do is to gently touch his arm or whisper his name and Cas will blink awake. He’ll be startled and disorientated, but he’ll let Dean draw him close and tuck his head under his chin and hold him until his tremor ceases and he’s able to fall back asleep.

Other night he’s yanked from his sleep by Cas’s cries, their Bond wreathing with pain and agony. Dean will wake, the bed cold and wet and he’ll find Cas howling and clawing at the mattress, his body twisting and contorting in torment.

“Why!” He’ll weep, digging his nails into the foam, “Dean!”

Dean can’t shake him awake from these dreams, these events he thinks aren’t really dreams at all, but Cas’s memories slowly seeping to the surface. The first time it happened he tried to draw Cas close to him only to have Cas’s elbow slamming into his nose. The second time, he Shifted and pin his large, warm body against Cas, until he felt Cas’s fingers dig into his fur and Cas’s wolf press against him.

The third night, he woke up and found the bed empty, only a cold, damp spot where Cas should be. He’d thrown himself out of bed, his nose picking up the faint trails of Cas’s sweat and leading him to the garden. There he found Cas standing, in just his boxers and t-shirt, staring at something far away and talking nonsense to a person Dean couldn’t see. Dean had gently gripped his shoulder and coaxed him back to bed and spent the rest of the night watching Cas sleep.

When morning dawns, they are both good at pretending that nothing happened. Cas won’t speak of his dreams, at least not to Dean, but Dean knows Cas is reliving his captivity.

“Sleepwalking is a common response to stress,” Pamela assures him. “We need to make sure the windows and doors are closed and there’s nothing sharp or dangerous in his path that he can hurt himself on.

“So, I should just let him be?”

“The best response is what you did, Dean. Make sure they return to bed safely, if you can’t move him, just stay with them and make sure he doesn’t walk into any dangerous situations.”

Dean nods and spends the day making sure all the windows and doors are fitted with a lock and that all the sharp implements are safely tucked away.

And as the days pass, they stumble into a routine.

“Talking about your shared history might help spur his own memories,” Pamela tells him, “but you can’t force him to remember.”

Their stilted conversation limps along as Dean takes Pamela’s suggestions to heart and tries to find aspects of their relationship, of Cas’s old life that he remembers.

It isn’t much.

He doesn’t remember the Gathering where they met, nor Sam, Jesse, Ash, Charlie, Charlie or Bobby. He can’t remember his old Pack, his favorite pizza topping or where he used to work. One morning, Dean found him rummaging around the back of the television, trying to turn it on.

Every time he sees Cas’s slightly puzzled expression slowly transform into a look of embarrassment, Dean was reminded of all the things the Collectors and Crowley had taken from him. It made his wolf growl and claw at Dean’s mind until Dean had to Shift and run through the woods until he was too exhausted to be angry.

He wasn’t sure what would happen if he every came face-to-face with Crowley, but he’s pretty sure Crowley wouldn’t walk away from the meeting unscathed.

  
The morning of the fourth day, Dean finds Castiel curled up on their sofa. Cas looks up at him with a careful, tilted, smile.

“Jesse thought it might help my memory to look at some old photos, so she brought an album over.”

“Cool, mind if I take a look?”

Cas shakes his head and Dean s falls into the sofa and slides an arm along the back, an open invitation, should Cas want one. His mate slides closer until there’s just an inch separating them. He puts the large, red album across their lap. Shifters are generally content with scents, one particular smell can immediately conjure up the memory connected to it. Jesse, however, is and eager photographer and brings her camera along to every event, even as something mundane as pizza night

Cas is looking at a picture of all of them gathered in Sam and Jesse’s sprawling backyard.

“This is dad’s birthday,” Dean murmurs, “we used to throw this massive barbecue party up on the farm. Most of the Pack showed up and we’d eat until we can’t move and sit outside until the weather chased us home.”

Charlie, Benny, and Ash are chasing an old soccer ball. Sam and John are standing by the grill, locked in some debate. Dean and Cas are standing under the awning, apparently oblivious to the cameraman: Dean’s hands are cupping Cas’s face, the omega coiling up against his mate, their lips locked in a kiss. Dean’s seen the picture many times before, but he’s never seen the dark shape standing in the doorway, watching them with yellow eyes. It's kinda creepy. Dean squints and tries to make out the figure. But, it’s impossible to see who it is.

“Used to?”

Dean tears his gaze away from the picture and glances at Cas.

“Well, you were gone and…”

Cas stares at him with an intensity he cannot hope to match. Dean drops his eyes, finds some comfort of the picture of the two of them.

“Well, I wasn’t all good at....” Dean runs through his hair, wondering how he’s going to summarize a year of utter self-induced misery. He’s not sure what to tackle first. His alcoholism, how he lost his job, their house, his bouts of depression so severe that Sam had forced him to move to the farm so that they could keep an eye on him.

“Things fell apart without you, Cas,” Dean mumbles.

Cas fingers crawl across the space between them, his right hand weaving into Dean’s fingers, he thumbs the top of Dean’s hand. Cas’s gaze drops to their laced hands, his shoulders curling up in a way that Dean recognizes as Cas’s preparing an apology and-

No.

No way.

Cas has nothing to feel sorry.

“I’m sorry,” Dean hurries to add, before Castiel can speak, “I should have kept it together. I should have searched for you, harder. I mean, I shouldn’t have just- and I’m sorry for the house, our house, I lost it, but…now it’s ours again and- all our stuff….most of it are still at Jesse and maybe we could go get it and unpack it- I should have kept searching, I’m so sorry.“

The words spill from him without rhyme or reason. Cas’s grip on his hands tightens until it’s almost painful, but Dean welcomes the pain because it’s nothing less than what he deserves.

“Dean,” Cas says, his voice low and tight, “it’s…”

“It’s not your fault, Cas. You didn’t do anything wrong, I- shit,” Dean tries to free his fingers from Cas’s, but the omega keeps a firm grip on his mate’s hand.

“They hunted you, somebody….picked you out in a catalogue, and we know….it must have been somebody from our Pack who…who told them you were pregnant and that’s why-“

“Do you know who it was?”

Dean shakes his head, “but we’ll figure it out, Cas,” he promises. “We’ll figure out who…who sold you out and we’ll find our pup, alright?”

Cas swallows give Dean a muted nod.

“Yeah, so,” Dean’s voice is wrecked and he tries to summon some levity back to it, “what’s on the next page, huh?”

Their fingers remain interlocked as Cas turns the page. There’s a couple of pictures of Sam herding the sheep, of Dean chasing his tail and a large, empty square where a picture’s gone missing.

“Pretty sure there’s suppose to be a picture of you and me here,” Dean says, running his free fingers over the faded paper. “It was taken just after we finished the house.”

“Maybe Jesse gave us the copy?”

“I’ll ask,” Dean says. “Hey, why don’t we fetch some our stuff from storage, maybe that will help refreshen your memory?”

“Sure, Dean.”

It takes them three rounds to the farm with Sam’s pickup to collect all the boxes and furniture from where it’s been stored in the barn. Sam, Jesse and Samandriel comes over and helps them unpack. Cas opens each box politely and studies every item like he’s opening Christmas presents from an old aunt. He sorts the books by the color of their spines. Some items find their old homes in shelves or in the windowsill while some things are placed at random. Cas is shocked at a number of band shirts that Dean owns and stares in wonder at his own collection of blue ties.

Around midnight they order food and settle around the kitchen table, talking and laughing like they aren’t anxiously waiting for words from John, Bobby and Charlie.

For the first time since they’ve returned, Dean finds himself slowly relaxing at the sight of Cas settling into the comforts of their home. It makes their Bond sing with joy, his Wolf rolling contently on its back. Dean has to keep himself from wrestling Cas onto the floor, curl up around him and lick every inch of available skin.

That night they sleep curled up on the bed in their Shifts. When Cas’s limbs start twitching and his soft whimpers wake Dean, as his nightmares chiles around him, Dean licks his ear and nose, chasing the darkness away. With their muzzles pressed together, breathing in synch, calm and soothing.

The quiet before the next storm.

 


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They finally get to meet Victor and get some answers. And more questions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought to divide this into two chapters, but figured you might enjoy one at a decent length for once. It´s unbeated and the only thing I know about American geography I have from google. 
> 
> Please read the chapter warnings, as this is a rather violent chapter. 
> 
> Spoilers in the end notes.

**Warning: Violence. Panic attacks. Character Death.**

 

**Chapter twenty-two.**

 

Two days later, the laptop Charlie left them, chimes with an incoming message:

_We´ve have made a deal with the Alpha from the North Dakota Territory. John will call you with instructions at 8pm. You and Castiel should pack your bags._

_-Charlie._

As soon as he's read the message, Dean is pulling out their worn traveling bags from under the bed.

Finally, he will get to do something else than sit around and wait. Finally, he will get some answers, even if the answer is that Victor doesn't know anything. At least, then they have eliminated one possibility and can move on to other theories.

“I’m not sure if this is a good idea,” Pamela says from the doorway. “Castiel is just settling in, to remove him from a location where he feels safe and to a potentially dangerous situation….”

She lets the possibilities hang in the air.

“He’ll be fine,” Dean says. He’s refusing to consider any other alternative. He can handle the nightmares and the sleepwalking, even if they are on the road. Pamela has taught him how to deal with Cas's panic attack and to look out for triggers. “They wouldn’t have asked for Cas unless it was important.”

Pamela frowns and moves into the room, closing the door behind her. She takes a seat on the edge of the bed, mindful of encroaching on the Alphas's personal domain.

She sees the flicker of Dean’s eyes, his knuckles whitening as he stuffs a black t-shirt into a bag.

“I think you should bring Sam or Samandriel. Just in case. Cas is comfortable around either of them.”

Dean twists away from Pamela under the pretense of searching for something in the closet. He doesn’t want her to read his expression, doesn’t want to read the doubt in hers.

“In the case of what?”

“In case you find him, Victor, and he has all the answers. In case, you don’t find him, and you are left with none. The truth is,” Pamela pauses and Dean can tell she is mustering her courage. “I’m worried about your emotional well-being as well. You might not be safe for him.”

Dean grabs a flannel shirt off the hanger with such force he almost rips the sleeve. Several hangers clatter to the floor, shirts and sweaters piling at his feet. Goddamit. Anger flares in his chest, bright and dangerous. How dare she suggest that Dean is dangerous to Cas, that he’d hurt him in any way. Cas is his mate and he’d-

-He’d grabbed hold of his shoulders and dug bruises into his skin. He remembers the icy shimmer of fear in Cas's. He remembers Sam's wide-eyed terror as Dean’s wolf clawed its way to the surface without Dean’s consent and out of Dean’s control. He feels Pamela’s eyes on his back, watching, judging.

Dean closes his eyes until the hazy vision of colors dims and fades and he feels his pulse slowing to a steady beat. He bends down and calmly picks the clothes up from the floor and threads them back onto the hangers.

“Alright,” Dean concedes, “I’ll ask Sam to come along.”

“Good.”

Dean turns and watches Pamela leave. She pauses in the doorway, one hand on the frame, “do you want me to talk to Castiel?”

“No,” Dean says, “I’ll talk to him after I’ve talked to dad.”

  
The afternoon drags away at an excruciating pace. Now that he knows they’ll be leaving soon, Dean can’t shake the restless itch under his skin to just get going. He’s waited too long for the sake of diplomacy and politics. Victor might know something about the Collectors. He might know who Cas talked to about his pregnancy, who might have tipped off the Hunters and Collectors.

The certainty that the answers to all of his questions are just a few hours away sits like a stone in his stomach. If the Alpha refuses to let them speak to Victor then....then, damned him, Dean would have his answers, no matter how many political rules he'd break to get them.

  
John calls at eight p.m on the dot. Dean grabs the phone on the first ring.

“Dad.”

“Dean,” John’s voice is gruff and tired, the way he gets after Gatherings and Territory meetings. Like his son, John is often far too impatient to weed through the pleasantries needed to observe old Territory and Pack rules. That’s more Bobby’s forte.

“We’ve been talking to the Alpha of Victor’s new pack.”

Dean’s heart skips a beat.

“Yeah?”

“Bit of an oddball, Alpha. Young wants to come off as modern and new thinking, yet still respecting the Old Ways.”

Dean can feel John rolling his eyes. Shit. He hopes John hasn't done anything to insult the other Alpha.

“Did he tell you anything about Victor? Did you get to talk to him?”

“Hang on, son, let me talk,” John says. The bluntness of his voice is dulled by a crackle of static and Dean hears a string of curses before his dad’s voice fills his head again.

“The Alpha, Shurley, met us at the Border. He listened to our story and I told him as much as I felt comfortable, as much as I thought he needed to know without going into the details.”

“Alright,” Dean turns and catches his mate’s gaze, his head titled in a quizzical frown. Dean forces a smile, gestures to the phone with his free hand.

“Now, they aren’t unfamiliar with Collectors and Hunters. They’ve lost five pack members in the past three years. But he’s protective of his Territory, won’t let us in unless we agree to his terms. Says that it’ll set the wrong precedent if he just lets an Alpha from a different Territory disturb Victor’s family and make accusations-“

“Wait…what? Victor is mated?”

“Yes,” John says, “he mated a beta female just two months after arriving.”

It takes skittering heart beat a few seconds to slow down long enough for Dean to hear what John isn’t saying. He steps away from Cas, moves across the room and to the privacy of the large living room window.

“There’s a pup, isn’t there?”

“Yes. It’s….it’s the right age, for....Edlund says they marked his six months-.”

Dean closes his eyes, presses his forehead against the cool window pane. His throat is tight with anger as the implications play out in his mind. Victor had been his friend since their school days. They had hunted together, joked around on John’s back porch and chased a chewed up football on Sam’s lawn. Victor had smuggled Dean his first beer, had patted his back when he drank too much of it. He’d been at Dean and Cas’s Bonding and toasted their union. He’d joined in the search for Cas when he disappeared.

“Did you-does he....it's a boy?“

He’s not sure what he wants to know. Did John see them? Is the pup theirs? Did Victor….buy it from Crowley?

Or maybe the pup really belongs to Victor and his beta mate? Maybe they’ve beaten the fertility odds. Maybe Victor’s managed to get the family he’s always wanted and he’s innocent of all of Dean’s vile and vicious thoughts.

“We haven’t seen them, no. Dean, this isn’t like….Charlie says that humans have a way of proving paternity, but it’s not like-“ John sighs and Dean pictures him pacing in the middle of his motel room, a hand combing through his hair, the faint trace of alcohol on his breath.

"I'm not sure how we can prove anything."

Dean tightens his grip on the phone so hard he´s afraid it's going to shatter in his hands. He'll challenge him, Dean thinks, he'll demand answers through the Old Ways.

He'll....

The wolf skulks through his mind teases the edge of human reason. Might is right, the wolf reminds Dean. You can always take him.

He'll....

Dean squeezes his eyes shuts and banishes the wolf back to where it belongs.

“We…we still need to talk to Victor,” Dean says, “he spoke to Cas, he might know….something.”

“Alpha Shurley agrees,” John says, “so, he’s going to let you, Cas and me across the Border. Under his supervision. You and Victor are old friends, you’re there to-“

John trails off and Dean catches the tail end of a conversation between him and Bobby. Angry words. More cursing. The clinking of a bottle. This is Bobby’s compromise, Dean realizes, John would have done what Dean wants to: go over and demanded answers, consequences be damned.

There’s a squabble between the two before Bobby’s voice takes over.

“Dean,” he says, “Cas would recognize his own pup. Even after all this time, there ain’t any way their bond would be broken.”

Dean´s heart thrills in his chest.

“And Shurley would accept that?” Dean asks, “if Cas-“

“Shurley is enough of a follower of the Old Ways that he won’t dispute a family bond, a blood bond, not like that.”

There’s a certainty in Bobby’s voice that fills Dean with a sense of hope he’s not dared to believe in since before Cas disappeared. That maybe, after everything, this is the last hurdle. That they’ll recover what was stolen from them and have their semblance of a happily ever after.

Dean can hardly trust his voice not to crack, “alright. What now?”

“Now you pack up your stuff, and tomorrow you head for North Dakota. Charlie says she’ll mail you a map. We also have three travel permits that you’ll need to print and have Jody sign.”

“Okay,” Dean breathes, his voice wet and shaky. He turns back to Cas and tries to convey some of Bobby’s assurance through their Bond. Cas’s mouth curls into an odd little twist, the faintest of smiles.

“See you soon,” Bobby says and ends the call. Dean stands for a moment and listens to the hum of static.

“What did he say?” Cas closes the distance between them with three steps.

“He tells us to head on over tomorrow. He sounds…optimistic.”

“Did they find Victor?”

“Yeah, and…Victor mated to a beta, they have a pup and-“

A myriad of emotions battles for control over Castiel’s features. Surprise. Despair. Anger.

“Do you think Victor….did Victor,” his words stumbles into a frustrated huff as if Cas is unable to even put words to Victor’s potential betrayal.

“I don’t know,” Dean admits, “I feel that it’s wrong to think that…to hope that Victor really, it’s not like I want him to have…shit, Victor’s our friend, I can’t even imagine that he’d-“

“We should leave. Right now.” Cas says.

“It’s late,” Dean says, “we haven’t even finished packing and we need the permits signed, and-“

“-And I won’t be able to sleep a wink tonight and neither will you, so we should just get going.”

“Yeah,” Dean shakes his head, tries to rid his head of all the questions and what ifs. But, you’ve suspected it, his mind reminds him. Think of Victor’s dark mood after the Gathering where you managed to steal Cas from him. He had been introducing the omega to John when you stepped up and met Alistair’s challenge for the claim. You humiliated him.

“I’ll make us some food for the road, we’re going to need buckets of coffee.”

Cas squares his shoulders and moves towards the kitchen, like a man on a mission. It’s the first time Dean’s seen him so determined, like the first hints of the stubborn omega Dean fell in love with.

“Right, I’ll go talk to Sam and get those permits signed by the sheriff. Cas-“

His mate stops and turns around, a question forming in the lilt of his eyebrows. Dean moves towards him, curls over Cas, his hands sliding across Cas’s cheek, his jaw, digs into his hair and secures him in place for the kiss that follows. His mate melts into his embrace, licks into his mouth, hands cupping his face and then slides down to the crook of Dean’s elbows and presses against the alpha until there’s not an inch of space between them. The Bond hums happily, spreading tendrils of warms across Dean’s chest and all the way to the tips of his toes.

“No matter what happens,” Dean whispers into the crown of Cas’s head, “I mean-“ he feels the coarse caress of Cas’s hair as the omega nuzzles against him. “I know,” Cas says, and Dean feels the beat of Cas’s heartbeat fluttering against his chest, fast and skittish.

  
An hour later the Impala is parked in Sheriff Jody Mill’s driveway and the sheriff not entirely too happy about having her evening interrupted.

“I’ll call the office in North Dakota and the other states you’ll be driving through. Let them know the paperwork is in order.”

“Thanks, sheriff.”

“It’s a twelve-hour drive, Dean, you planning to stop along the way?”

“Only for fuel and food,” Dean says, “we’ll split the drive.”

“Hmm,” sheriff Mills gives him a dubious look, her stern expression melting away, “I’m glad you found your mate, Dean. I hope you find the rest of your family.”

“I will,” Dean promises.

They pick up Sam from the farm only ten minutes later.

Sam bids Jess goodbye, pressing a chaste kiss on her cheek and pressing her close. Samandriel watches them from the doorway, blushing awkwardly and shuffling his long legs as if he’s not entirely sure what to do with himself. The young man has settled down on Sam and Jess’s farm, strangely content to watch the herd and muck the stables.

“We’ll call when we meet the others,” Sam says.

“Drive safely,” Jess bids with a stern look at Dean.

“We will,” Dean promises, even holding the door open for his brother to fold his giant limbs into the front seat of the car.

"Evening, Cas," Sam says.

"Evening, Sam," Cas replies, "and thank you for coming with us."

"No need to thank me," Sam says with a tight smile.

  
The beams of the Impala cuts through the darkness as they roll down the driveway and onto the main roads. As the night passes, the roads stretch before them, dark and empty, save for the passing lights of the occasional bus and truck making its way along the highway. Cas has curled up in the backseat, wrapped in a nest of blankets, head resting against the window. Sam falls asleep, predictably, about an hour into the drive and when they pass Omaha, Cas has drifted off as well.

It’s been months since John has let Dean anywhere near the Impala and he revels in the familiar humming of the vehicle, the feeling of the wheel under his hands and the quiet tunes from the radio. It feels good to be in motion again.

At Sioux Falls, he pulls over at a truck stop and stretches his aching limbs. It’s cold and damp and the gas and oil fumes make his nose itch and his wolf recoil in disgust.

“I’ll drive for a while,” Sam says through a yawn and Dean is too exhausted to even put up a token protest. Instead, he curls up in the backseat with Cas, who blinks sleepily at him before welcoming his alpha into his nest of blankets.

Their destination is the small town of Tolna, just outside the borders of the North Dakota Territory. Charlie’s instructions give them the name of a motel called View Lodge, and it’s the only one in the city, so it’s impossible to miss.

When the car rolls into the parking space a little past nine in the morning, they are meet by Charlie’s red hair against the pale, green concrete walls, and Bobby’s grumbled disposition.

“I’m sure I don’t want to know how many traffic violations you’ve broken to making it here in time for breakfast.”

Cas and Sam stumble out of the car, squinting at the pale light, their movements stiff and unnatural. Dean feels his wolf protest of the hours of inertia

“Yeah, well, no reason to delay,” Dean mumbles, feeling the joints in his back crack and ache as he stretches. “I need to stretch my limbs,” he says. A glance at Cas tells him that his thoughts echo his own.

“Not without a guest tag on your collar you ain’t,” Bobby says. He returns a moment later and clips too green tags onto Dean’s brown and Cas’s blue collar.

“People around here are real modern, real acceptin’ of Shifters and all,” Bobby says as if it’s a personal insult, “but the law is still the law.”

Dean clips the collar around his neck and then does the same to Cas.

“When you finishes, there’s a shower and breakfast ready for you, we’re in apartment 5,” Charlie says, pointing to a small, yellow cabin at the back of the parking lot. “Alpha Shurley will meet us here in a few hours.”

  
It’s just past noon when Dean meets Shurley, the Alpha of North Dakota Territory. He’s not really sure what he expected, but from his experience, most Alphas are men and women in their prime with an authority that’s not easily challenged. Edlund looks like he’s just a few years older than Dean, slender looking fellow with unkempt hair and tired, but kind eyes. He’s carrying a pink travel mug and a friendly smile. Behind him stands a beta woman with long, light brown hair.

“Hello, welcome to North Dakota. I wish it was under better circumstances,” he grabs Dean’s hands in a firm shake before Dean can even muster a protest.

“I’m Alpha Shurley, but you can call me Chuck, this is my mate-” he wraps an arm around the woman’s shoulder and presents her to Dean, “Becky.”

“Nice to meet you!” Becky says in an enthusiastic voice. She barrels past all rules and curtsies and grabs Dean’s hands…an alpha’s hand, with both hers and shakes it vigorously. Dean tenses feel the hair of his wolf prickling to attention, a snarl curling on his lips and-

“We do things different here,” Chuck says and rescues his mate’s hands from Dean’s.

“We’re not all that concerned about pack hierarchy,” Becky chirps proudly, “we elect our leaders! To us, Alpha is just a title, like the human "mayor." ”

Dean can hear John’s exasperated sigh, but he thinks the source of it is more probably Becky’s cheerful disposition than any the thinly veiled slight at old traditions.

“What?” Sam’s pulling his studious and scholarly face, “you have elections?”

“Sure do,” Becky says, patting Chuck’s arm, “we elect our Alpha for eight years at a time and everybody over the age of eighteen can run for the position.”

“That’s real-“

“-Interesting,” Dean interrupts before Sam manages to dig them into a debate on Pack policies and the modern Shifter community.

“This is Cas, my mate.” Cas, who has been standing a few feet behind Dean, shuffles forward, head bent and eyes on his shoes. It’s the traditional, submissive, omega gesture and it makes something sting in Dean’s chest, but he doesn’t have the patience to examine the feeling further.

“Oh, hello,” Chuck says, and this time he grabs Becky’s arm before she manages to reach out and grab Cas’s hands. No matter how modern you are, you don’t touch a mated omega without permission.

“We’re here to see Victor,” Dean says, sliding an arm along Cas’s back, resting at the curve of his spine. He feels Cas leaning against him until Cas's hand curls around Dean's waist.

“Right,” Chuck clasps his hands together. “Now we’ve agreed to some terms with your Alpha, John.”

“Yes,” John says, stepping forward and assuming control over the conversation. “Shurley and I will escort Dean and Cas through the Territory to Victor’s place. It’s in a small settlement called Warwick. He’s mated to a beta named Meg, and they live just across from the school, where Victor works as a janitor. Now, they don’t know you are coming, we agreed-“

John says this in a way that suggests that it’s one of the terms he refused to negotiate on, “that it’s best if they don’t know you are coming, but that we will approach them-“

And now they come to one of Shurley’s terms. The young Alpha smiles thinly, “-that we will approach them in a friendly and civilized manner and that nobody will accuse anybody of…anything until we’ve got proper evidence.” The Alpha’s smile grows wider and Becky nods eagerly, “ innocent until proven guilty. I'm sure this is just a dreadful misunderstanding, I can't imagine Victor doing anything as dreadful as....”

“Right.” John says. “Shurley and I will observe from a distance, but only Alpha Shurley will be allowed to intervene should it be necessary. You will both swear to adhere to his instructions, no matter what. You refuse this term, and there’s no arrangement.”

Dean glances at Cas and his mate nods, once.

“Alright. Let’s go.”

Warwick is only a twenty-minute drive away, but for Dean, it seems like hours pass. He’s in the backseat of the Impala with Cas at his side, John driving and Chuck and Becky following in their own car, a beat up Volkswagen.

Warwick is stretches of thin, dusty roads and scattered houses with large, green pastures. There’s a couple of cars here and there, pickups and trucks. But, despite the tired, worn look of the city, its population are young and vibrant. Smiling teenagers and human children playing in the streets. The houses are painted in bright, fresh colors and there are colorful streams stretched along the pavement. Shifters and humans living side-by-side.

“A lot of Shifters who disagree with…." John clears his throat, "they come up here. North Dakota is more than happy to accept them. A few decades back and there weren’t even a hundred Shifters here.” John’s grip on the wheel tightens, “I can’t say I agree with all of their ideas, but they…must be doing something right.”

It’s as much of an endorsement you’re ever going to get from John Winchester.

They pull up on an empty slot across from a large, brown house. The property is surrounded by large, oak trees and somebody has attempted to cultivate a garden of flowers, before giving it up to nature’s own design. There’s a porch with a decent sized grill, new, by the looks of it, and a couple of empty beer cans stacked in a box by the front steps.

“That’s it,” John says, nodding at the house. “School is in session, so Victor is probably home.”

Dean swallows down the hard lump in his throat and squeezes Cas’s hand, once.

“Alright.”

“Remember Alpha Shurley’s terms,” John says, “if he thinks you’re overstepping on the agreement, he’ll drag you out, and if you don’t comply, I’ll drag you out myself.”

“I know, dad.”

Dean steps out of the car. His body aches in a way it hasn’t done since his first hangover. He feels dizzy and nauseous and closes his eyes for a moment against sudden vertigo. He bites back vomit and bile as he stuffs all those feels down before they can leech through the Bond and to Cas. Cas who looks, terrified and determined all at once. Dean can see the slight tremor in Cas's hands, spreading through his body with every breath and for a moment, he wonders if Cas might actually faint.

“You alright?”

Cas wipes a hand across his face and blinks until his vision clears. Dean steps around the car and grabs his mate’s hands. His palm is sticky and cold, clammy against Dean’s own.

“Yeah, I just…” Cas’s Adam's apple bobs against the words lodged in his throat.

“I know.” Dean says, squeezing his hand and then leading him across the road towards Victor’s house.

 

  
Four solid steps up the steps. Two to cross the porch to the front door. It’s painted white and there’s a wreath of green leaves and blue flowers hanging on the door. Dean takes a deep breath and then knocks. Once. Twice. Five times.

“Hang on!”

It’s a woman’s voice and Cas goes rigid beside him. Does he recognize it from somewhere? Dean doesn’t have time to ask before the door opens as far as the security chain allows and a young woman peers through the narrow crack.

“Yes?”

The first thing Dean realizes is the she looks like some sort of faded version of Cas. Long dark hair, pale blue eyes, white skin, the jut of her chin.

“Hello, I’m Dean and this is Castiel Winchester. We’re old friends of Victor, is he home?”

If their names mean anything to Meg, she doesn’t let the recognition register in her expression.

“Hang on,” she closes the door and Dean hears the rattling of the security chain being pulled off. This time the door swings open, but Meg is still blocking their way into her house.

“Dean Winchester, you say? From the Winchester Territory, where Victor used to live.”

“Yeah,” Dean stuffs his hands into his pockets, half to hide their tremors, half hoping it will make him seem less intimidating.

“Our Alpha, our dad-“ Dean nods to the two cars parked across the road, “is visiting. He’s talking to Alpha Shurley, looking for new ideas and-“

Meg opens her mouth and Dean can see the debate warring for control of her answers. If she says no, it might seem suspicious as she just admitted to knowing who they are.

And, if Victor has actually told Meg anything about the Winchesters, and about John, she’ll know that Dean is bluffing. Meg seems unconvinced and she looks across the road to Shurley and Becky and John. The former waves enthusiastically at her, before making a show of pointing at the school and the houses and talking animatedly to John.

“Anyways, we thought we’d hitch a ride with dad and visit our old friend Victor, see how he’s doing.”

Suddenly, Meg breaks into a wide smile. “Victor’s not at home right now, but why don’t you come on in and wait for him? Do you want a cup of coffee or something?”

She sounds far too happy to be guilty of anything, Dean thinks. Meg and Victor might be innocent. Maybe Victor doesn’t know anything about Cas and the Collectors and Crowley. You want them to be innocent, a tiny voice whisper, Victor is your friend after all.

“Thanks,” Dean steps in and is immediately assaulted by a hundred different scents. Food. Sweat. Dust. Alcohol. Cigarettes. Old furniture and stale air. Meg’s perfume and the heavy scent of disinfectant soap. It makes Dean’s head swim and he almost stumbles.

“Come on into the kitchen,” Meg says.

The room is desperately warm and he can feel beads of sweat trickle down the back of his neck. Cas grabs him carefully by the shoulder, steadying him.

The kitchen is small and cluttered almost beyond recognition. Dirty dishes and glasses are piled high in the sink, two cartons of Take Away pizza leans against a cupboard and bottles of soda and cans of beer covers almost every available surface. There are empty cartons of milk, fruit, and bread on a kitchen table, that’s covered in newspapers and magazine. There’s a small television mounted on one wall, some program filling the screen. There are four chairs around the table and a chair for a baby. Dean can’t take his eyes off it, the green padding in the seat, the flecks of baby food on the tray.

“Sorry about the mess,” Meg says, making a half-hearted attempt to shuffle away a carton of cereal. Now that Dean can see her properly, he can see how the state of the house mirrors Meg’s haggard appearance. Her slick hair is pulled up in a bun, there are bags under the bags of her eyes. She’s wearing old sweatpants and a hoodie with stains along the front of it. Vomit, perhaps.

“We’ve got a pup and he’s not sleeping….much. Or at all.” She gives an odd, hollow laugh. As if on cue, there’s a high pitched scream from the living room. It cuts straight through the marrow, a desperate, tired wail.

Meg sighs, her shoulders slumping, “hang on,” she says.

Dean dares a glance at Cas. His mate has gone absolutely stock still, but his chest is heaving in rapid wheezing breath like he can’t get enough air. His eyes are wide and blue and locked on something far, far away that Dean can’t see.

“Shit, Cas,” Dean grabs his shoulder, gives him a gentle shake. “You gotta breath!” He’s hyperventilating, Dean realizes, and places a hand on his stomach, just below his ribs and slides the other to his stomach.

“Breath with me, babe,” Dean says, gentle but firm. Cas’s eyes flicker desperately around the room before they land on Dean.

"Yeah, that's good. Look at me. Breathe through your nose, let the air seep out through your lips,” Dean instructs with Pamela’s calm voice in his head.

Meg returns, cradling a screaming child in her arms. He's got a dark lick of hair on his head and he's glad in a white and blue pajamas and mismatching socks. She’s trying to comfort him, swaying her hips, rocking her arms and making odd shushing noises.

“He’s got colic,” Meg explains, even if Dean isn’t really listening. "He’ll cry for a few hours, at least." The baby’s hands are curled into tiny fists, his body taut like a bow against Meg’s. “He’s been crying…most of his life.”

Suddenly, Cas tears himself free from Dean’s arms and before Meg has even time to voice her protest, the omega’s taken the child into his arms, cradling it gently against his chest, curling his body over the form, until only the top of his dark head is visible. Cas’s shoulders are trembling, but the baby’s cries are dwindling to quiet, soft, whimpers.

Dean has only moments of awareness of the following seconds, but each of them cuts like a knife.

Meg's shriek. The sound of a door slamming open.

Meg’s reaching out to grab her child, only Dean knows, knows through the very core of everything that this is his son.

There’s a sweep of an arm, Dean grabbing hers in a vice-like-grip. She stares at him, eyes wide and terrified before anger fills them from slit to slit. It might not be her child by blood, but parental instinct doesn’t care.

She lashes out with her free hand, her long nails scratching into Dean’s cheek.

“Cas,” Dean says, his voice rough and hard, “go outside. Go to John.”

Meg snarls, vicious and nasty, but Dean’s got a few inches on her and a righteous fury that’s been building for years.

“Did you know?” he snarls, the grip on her arm tightening. She hisses, and swipes at him again, but this time, he steps aside and around, twisting her arm up and around her back, pinning it in place.

“Was it your idea, or Victor´s?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Meg growls, she yanks against Dean’s grip, “you come into my house and take my son.”

“That’s not your son,” Dean leans forward, putting pressure on her arm, his Wolf smiling in glee at the hiss of pain passing through Meg’s clenched teeth.

“He is Victor’s son,” Meg says, “and that makes him mine.”

“No. He’s not.”

Dean realizes a split second too late that they are no longer alone. He feels a hand on his elbow, twisting him around and he stares into Victor’s vicious snarl. He’s yanked away from Meg, his arm wringing painfully up and along his back as Victor places his legs between Dean, making him lose his footing and stumble forward and crashing into the kitchen table that shatters under him.

He recognizes the taste of blood as he bites the inside of his mouth. His head sings with pain as he wipes the blood away from his mouth. Dean summons his strength and prepares himself for the next attack, but in the next moment Victor’s hand grips his hair and yanks his hair back and the next thing Dean sees is a looming shadow as Meg stands over him, her eyes like the barrels of a shotgun.

He closes his eyes as stars explode and he’s yanked up and then pushed forward, his head slamming into the sharp edge of the kitchen counter. Dean stumbles to his feet, a thick stream of blood running down his forehead and blocking his vision. He stumbles, spitting blood and growling. He hardly sees Victor lashing out, uncontrolled, hardly human, his body shifting and bulging under his clothes, teeth growing longer, his eyes yellow slits as he launches himself at Dean.

This time, Dean is prepared. He rolls away and uses the momentum to curl back up on his feet. He dodges Victor’s next blow, an unbridled swipe of claws and human hands. He cants away from Meg’s kick and feels his own wolf battling for control and-

He stares back, ignores the pain across his scalp in favor of concentrating all of his power on his wolf, to keep the human fear at bay.

-He explodes into his Shift, meeting Victor halfway, the wolf’s massive body crashing into Victor’s mass of muscles and limbs. Revengerevengerenge, the wolf howls and Dean bearly has the presence of mind to reel in the strength of his jaws as he bites down onto Victor’s shoulder. Victor screams in pain, and then somebody slams a goddamned fryingpan across Dean’s muzzle, forcing him to let go. Dean stumbles back, shaking away his pain.

He’s got enough distance between them get a proper look at Victor, fear coiling through his body at what he sees. A wolf’s snout on a human face, long ears, tufts of fur against human skin, his eyes filled with red, a terrible, grotesque creature, trapped between two forms.

Meg’s in control of her shape and she darts across the kitchen, lightning fast snagging a kitchen knife and with a high pitched roar she slashes at Dean. He feels the flare of pain across his flank as the knife slices him, the cuts shallow but enough to make him bleed and lose his concentration. She comes at him, again and again, her blade cutting into his hide.

Dean tries to summon his breath, tries to summon his human logic. He knows he's stronger than Victor, always once, but Meg is on her side and Victor's mind is lost to the deep, rage fueling his every movement.

Victor comes at him again, barreling forward until the two of them crash through the front door, sending hails of splinter like projectiles across the lawn. Dean feels one dig into his side, and sees a large piece sticking out from Victor's back, but the man is uncaring. Dean shakes his fur free of splinters, pushes himself onto his legs and gathers his wits just in time to roll away from Victor’s fist that barrels through the air. In the corner of his eyes, he sees Shurley, wide-eyed and shocked, standing with Becky and Cas across the streets. At least, Cas is safe. John won't let anything happen to him, and John is-

Meg screeches as she runs forward, knife branded in one hand, her hair a stream of dark behind her.

But, John is-

A dark shadow in the corner of his vision and John leaps forward, massive, dark shape of his wolf. He’s seen the vicious, instinctive ferocity in his dad only once before, and the sheer savagery of his assault is a thing of terrifying beauty. Meg screams and drops her knife as John slams into her, knocking her flat on her back. She lies still, gasping and terrified, her chest heaving for air. And then, when John steps away she remains on her back, throat and stomach exposed, submissive. No matter how modern your human mind might be, Dean thinks, you can’t fight your wolf’s instincts.

Agony spreads across his shoulder as Victor returns Dean’s earlier assault and bites into his flank, his human, clawed hands creep forward along Dean’s muzzle and towards his eyes.

There’s an inhuman gurgle coming from Victor, but Dean can just make out words like.

“Mine. Cas is mine”

Dean shuts his eyes as Victor’s fingers press against his eye sockets, the weight of him pinning him to the ground, trapped and helpless. Goddamned, he's not going to die here.

Suddenly, the weight above him disappears as John towers over them, grabbing by the neck and hoisting him off Dean. Dean rolls away, Shifting back into his human form, coughing and wheezing for breath. Blood drips onto his lawn and he feels Cas's terror through his Bond.

He blinks and blinks, but his vision swims in a frightening blur, and he can just make out his dad’s shape, human and naked as he keeps Victor immobilised, one hand gripping his throat and keeping him off Dean.

“Do you yield,” it’s hardly a question. Victor grabs at John’s hand, claws turning to smooth, useless fingers, fangs giving way to a row of yellowed, human teeth.

“No, I won’t- this is my family,” Victor croaks. His lips are turning blue against the struggle to breathe.

"You are wrong," John says with glacial calm, "this is my family. Dean's family."

Victor glares at Dean, blood seeping through his lips.

“You didn’t even want a family,” he spits, “you wanted to enjoy your freedom” he hisses, “a banquet of bitches, you called it. You didn’t even want to settle down and then, “ he wheezes for air. Dean feels hot coils of shame pooling in his stomach. But he won’t look away, won’t give Victor the satisfaction.

“And then you go and take my omega away from me and flaunt your goddamned happiness in my face with your stupid Bonding and your family barbecues. You don’t deserve- you don’t deserve him, that pup is mine and-“

The last of his words are squeezed away by John’s grip and Dean thinks his dad might actually kill Victor, press the life out of him, right here, if not for Alpha Shurley’s sudden appearance by his side.

“Victor,” he admonishes, as if Victor’s nothing but a naughty puppy that’s been caught soiling the carpet, “are these accusations true? Did you…”

“Don’t be an idiot, Chuck. Of course, they are true,” Meg weeps. "You know how....you know it's almost impossible for betas to have children, you know it's-"

“Shut up,” Victor hisses. "Shut up, Meg!"

“I’ll go and call the sheriff,” Alpha Shurley says. “He’ll handle it from now on.”

“You sure?” John asks. His grip loosens, not enough for Victor to break free, but enough to let the man breathe properly.

“Yes. There are….too many violations, he’ll be- you saw him, caught between two Shifts that’s…“ Shurley shudders and presses his lips to a thin line, the rest of his words unspoken. He’ll be put down, Dean knows. Not being able to fully control your shape is the most severe violation.

“If you lock me up.” A triumphant gleam appears in Victor’s eyes, “I won’t tell you where the other one is.”

Dean’s heart lurches in his chest and he swallows against the bile and the scream that clogs his throat.

“Other one?” he croaks.

“There were twins, you idiot. It’s how I made my deal with Crowley. When Cas told me…I couldn’t believe my luck. I’d get one as my reward for the information on Cas, and Crowley would get one to sell. Do you know how much a Shifter pup is worth, Dean? An infant? Millions.” Victor’s mouth quirks into a fake mockery of a smile.

Dean knows that the world isn’t spinning, but when he opens his eyes, they tell him something else entirely.

“And you know where he is?”

“It’s a boy, and yes,” Victor licks his lips, his tongue red and sharp as it laps at the blood on his lips. “If I tell you, you’ll let me go, right? You’ll just exile me.”

“What about me?” Meg wails, “aren’t you going to barter for me too?

“Right,” Victor squirms, “we’ll both get to go. Exile.”

“He’s your Pack,” John says slowly, watching Edlund, “so, it’s your call.”

Edlund looks, if anything, relieved at not having to sentence Victor to death. He nods eagerly and gestures for Victor to speak.

“When I came to collect my end of the bargain, they had just completed the auction.”

Dean’s stomach ties itself in knots. A goddamned auction. They'd sold his kid like he was a commodity to the asshole with the highest bid.

“And I heard the name of the…winner.”

“And?”

“Michael Milton,” Victor says lazily. "With his name, you'll find him easily enough."

“Did you know what Crowley had planned for Cas when you decided to sell him to the Collector?” John asks.

“ Of course. Why should I care? All I wanted was the pup, the one that should have been mine all along.”

Alpha Shurley’s face does something complicated and then he takes a few steps back. John watches him go, his face impassive.

“We had a deal, right?” Victor rolls his shoulders, glances from John to Shurley.

Dean sees John’s eyes flickering across the yard to Edlund. The young Alpha is standing next to Becky, who is awkwardly trying to console Cas, without actually touching him.

“Do we have an agreement, Shurley?” John asks. Shurley looks up, and there’s a sudden hardness in his eyes that seems entirely alien and terrifying.

“Yes,” he says, and then gives John a curt nod.

Before Dean has time to translate his dad’s expression, John reaches out, places arm around Victor’s neck and with a smooth, almost carefree movement, twists his neck. There’s a sickening snap and then Victor crumbles to the ground.

Meg screams, stumbling backward until she realizes John isn’t moving towards her. She turns on her heels and flees back into her house.

“Come on, Dean. We need to get those wounds looked at,” John says, he grabs Dean’s arm and pulls him to his feet. Dean stumbles into his dad’s arms, his eyes red and puffy and filling with water. John guides him around Victor’s body and across the yard towards Cas and Becky.

“That was my term,” John says grimly.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please don´t read any child abuse or neglect into this, it´s simply an overwhelming, tired mother with a sick child that doesn´t sleep much.
> 
> P.S Feel free to throw me name suggestions!


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am happy to be able to keep my promise of a quick update. Be prepared for all the angst and the fluff. See end note for warnings. 
> 
> Thanks for all your kind support, it´s what keeps me writing.

**Warning: see end notes for warnings.**

 

**Chapter 23.**

 

Dean can't figure out how to break his gaze away from Victor's crumpled body. Legs splayed forward, his shirt hitched slightly, exposing bare flesh above the waistband of his jeans. One arm resting over his eyes, almost giving the illusion that Victor has just laid down to rest. Almost. If not for the unnatural angle of his head.

"Dean," his dad's voice, firm, commanding, guides him, more by instinct than trust.

"Come, son."

Dean trails after him, glad for the simple command. They cross the road. They don't look back.

Becky and Alpha Shurley are standing beside the Impala, Becky with an arm crooked in Shurley's, her eyes watery.

"That's it then," Alpha Shurley presses his lips to a thin line. The encounter between the Winchesters and Victor and Meg has robbed him of his earlier cheerfulness. He doesn't quite know if he will ever recover it.

"Yes," John nods.

"I'll just..." Shurley gestures to a blanket tucked under his arm and then to Victor's body.

"We got Castiel to sit in the car," Becky says with a wobbling voice.

Dean turns his head and sees Cas tucked into the backseat of the Impala, curled protectively around the baby. Their son.

“I think it’s best to just leave them be,” Becky says with a teary laughter, “I offered to hold the baby while he got inside, and he growled at me.”

“It’s to bee expected,” John says.

He places a hand on his son’s shoulder and steers him towards the back of the car, propping him against the booth. Dean stifles a wince and clutches at his side.

"Roll up your shirt," John instructs. Dean yanks his shirt up, exposing his ribs and his back to John's scrutiny. Most of his wounds area already slowly knitting themselves together, but the slashes against his back are still bleeding, still stinging with pain.

“Goddamn,” John mutters as he inspects the wound, “silver blade. You’ll need stitches, this won’t heal on its own.”

Alpha Shurley mutters a curse. “I can take him to our Healer,” he says, “and then drop him off at your motel. He shouldn’t be close to his omega,” Shurley’s nose creases in disgust “not reeking of blood.”

“Yeah, sure,” Dean agrees. He’s having difficulty drawing his gaze away from the study of the back of Cas’s neck. Their Bond is a conflux of emotions, too tangled for him to distill Cas's feelings. It's making his Wolf restless and agitated. It paces the borders of Dean's consciousness and it's difficult to fight its instincts, even if he can sense Cas's anxiousness at his presence.

“What’s going to happen to Meg?” John asks.

“I’ll let tribunal decide," Alpha Shurley stuffs his hands in his pockets. "She's a native and her family is an old one, well respected in some circles. I do not expect that she’ll be severely punished.”

John sighs and turns tiredly away, his hands clench into fists against his sides.

“If you want to see her punished,” Alpha Shurley says hesitantly, “that is your right by the Old Ways, but-“

“No,” John interrupts, “I’ll consider the matter concluded.”

Alpha Shurley’s eyes are cold as he nods. He beckons for Dean to get into the backseat of his car and Dean slides in, feeling a gnawing pit in his stomach. As Shurley turns the key in the ignition, Cas's eyes suddenly lock on his. They look at each other for a long moment, quiet, holding on for what feels like dear life.

 

When they return to the motel, Sam, Charlie, and Bobby are standing in the parking lot, waiting. It's only been two hours since they left, but the minutes had long and agonizing, with no words and only Sam's vivid imagination for company.

The Impala pulls into the designated parking spot, and John steps out of the car, his raised hand stopping them before they can crowd around the car. He looks old, Sam thinks, noticing the streaks of gray in his hair, the white stubble around his jaw.

“Stay back,” John says firmly, “best wait until Dean arrives.”

“Is he alright?” Sam towers over John and twists his head to try and catch a glimpse of Cas, nestled in the backseat.

“Whelping instincts,” is John’s only explanation.

"Oh," Sam says, but he's too embarrassed by his ignorance to press for a further explanation.

“What happened, did you find Victor?”

John takes a deep breath and then tells him.

Alpha Shurley and Dean arrive a few minutes later, pulling up on the opposite side of the road. Sam can't hear their conversation and Dean's expression is guarded, all blank walls and stoic silence. At last, they part and Dean moves slowly towards the motel, John moving to meet him halfway. He pats Dean shoulder as they pass before he raises his hand to Shurley.

Dean walks stiffly across the lot. The wound is held close with ten stitches and a wad of thick bandage that is squeezing his ribs. Sam tugs him into a rough, firm hug, he waits for the sensation of Dean's arm to hug him back, but they remain limp at his side.

“Sorry,” Sam loosens his grip, looks sheepish. “And Victor….?” Sam lowers his gaze, but Dean follows it across the parking lot to where John and Alpha Shurley is still talking.

“Dead,” is the only thing Dean says.

The two pack leaders huddle around Shurley’s car, heads bent, whispering. A second later, they shake hands and then Shurley climbs back into his car, and with a small wave, bids them goodbye.

Dean pushes Sam aside and strides towards the Impala. As gently as he can, he pries the door open. Cas’s head snaps around, his eyes large and blue. He scoots back a few inches. Dean senses his discomfort through the Bond at the way Dean is looming into his space. A coil of sadness knots in Dean's chest, but he forces a smile. Cas can't fight his omega instincts, any more than he can fight his nightmares.

“Hey,” Dean says softly. He takes a small step back, opens his arms wide to give Cas space. “Let’s go inside. They’ve made up a room for you.”

Cas’s eyes flit from the crown of the dark head in his arms to Dean’s eyes and then towards the blue door of the motel apartment. Dean can see the way he calculates the distance to the door and the odds of any dangers in his path, against the instinct of remaining where he is.

“It’s safe,” Dean assures him, forcing the truth of it to the Bond. Cas’s gaze softens a little and he ducks his head and steps carefully out of the car, his precious cargo cradled securely against his chest and tucked under his jacket.

Dean wants to touch them, to wrap his arms around Cas and feel his warm breath against his cheek. He wants to nose against the soft strands of his hair. He wants to touch his son, kiss the top of his head and fill his lungs with his scent. The urge is burning under his skin in a rush that’s making him dizzy.

We’ll watch them, his Wolf promises, we’ll keep them in our sight and never lose them again.

“Come on,” John’s voice drifts in from his left. He puts a warm hand on Dean’s shoulder, “let’s get them settled.”

Charlie’s eyes go round as saucers and Bobby is blinking rapidly, a hand shielding his eyes, even if there’s no sun.

Afterward, there’s a bit of an awkward shuffling. John sends Bobby and Charlie off to purchase necessary supplies before he retreats to his room. Sam goes to the reception and rents a room next to Charlie’s, glad of the privacy.

It’s a small room with a narrow bed, a single chair, and an open doorway that leads into a narrow, green, bathroom. Sam dumps his stuff on the floor before collapsing on the bed. He closes his eyes for a moment and lets the rush of the day, the tiredness of the long drive and myriad of emotions battle for control until he’s exhausted and unable to tell one emotion from the other.

He finds the mobile phone tucked into his bag, dials home and listens to the chirp and trickle of the phone. He’s just decided to give up and call later when he hears Jess’s breathless voice. It's late afternoon and he gathers that Jess got about as much sleep as he did last night.

“Hey, Jesse, were you taking a nap? I hope I didn’t wake you.”

He hears the sound of his wife slipping off the sofa and wrapping her thick, yellow, fleece blanket around herself.

“Not at all,” Jess lies with a yawn, “I was waiting for you to call. How is….everyone?”

Sam huffs a laugh, and swings his legs onto the bed, rummaging around for the second pillow to tuck behind his head so that he can sit comfortable against the headboard, phone cradling against his chin.

“It’s….” His breath sticks in his throat, words too thick to come out.

“Did you find Victor?” Jess asks helpfully.

“Yeah,” Sam swallows, “yeah, we did. He was….Shit, remember how we suspected that it was somebody from inside the Pack who was responsible for giving the Hunters all the information on Cas and Dean? How it had to be somebody who their routine, knew of Cas’s path through the woods, who supplied them with the pictures and the information about his pregnancy?”

Sam can picture Jess gathering the threads of his story. Her eyes widening in shock, a gasp concealed by her hand before her lips would tighten in anger. He listens to her steps across the living room carpet, the sound of a door gently closing.

“Victor,” she says, “Victor did all that? Why….how could he do such a thing to Cas and Dean?”

He takes a deep breath before he lets it all out in a rush of words. “Cas was pregnant with twins and…we don’t know how Victor knew, maybe Cas confided in him? Cas doesn’t remember and…well, Dean doesn’t want to push the issue right now. Victor made a deal with this guy, Crowley, the Collector I met, the one who had Cas in…in this cage,” Sam feels the give of the flimsy plastic phone and loosens his grip. “Victor made a deal with Crowley, he’d give him the information he needed for his Hunters to kidnap Cas, and then Crowley would get one of the pups and Victor the other.”

Jess lets out a string of curses, so sharp and foul that it makes him blush.

“Are they okay? Dean and Cas and…did you find the pup?”

“It’s a boy,” Sam breathes, “we found him, with Victor and his mate, Meg. Victor and Meg attacked Dean and dad-“ Sam closes his eyes for a moment. John had been terse about their encounter with Victor and his mate, but he'd been blunt about the details.

“Dad killed him, Jess. Victor. Snapped his neck.”

“Christ,” Jess breathes.

They are both silent for a moment. Sam fights the images of his dad killing Victor. He knows Shifters lead violent lives. Sometimes they fight. Sometimes to the death. It hadn’t been easy for John to assert his dominion over the Winchester territory, even if it was founded by their bloodline. He has seen him come to blow with other wolves and practice with other Shifters. He has seen his wolf, hunt and kill preys twice his size.

But this had been a fully human John, and a cold, calculated, planned and executed kill.

“Sam,” Jess says gently, “are you alright?”

“Yeah,” he wipes a hand across his face, ridding himself of the images. “Yeah, I’m alright. I’m…I’m more worried about Dean.”

“What happened to him?”

“Victor and his mate, Meg, beat him up. Shit. Meg had a silver knife- he’s a Shifter, though, so he’ll heal easily enough, but-“

Sam glances about the room, even lowering his voice.

“Dean hasn’t really…said much since they got back. He’s just got this slightly…blank look on his face.”

Dean had stared at Cas like he can’t really believe that Cas and his son isn’t a figment of his imagination, that they’ll disappear if he looks away. He let John steer him to their room. He’d been pale and bloody, his breath trembling and hands shaking. Sam hadn’t seen him this bad since the first time John had hinted that Cas might not come back. Dean had started to yell at his dad then, hysterical screams and shouts that ended with John slapping him. The first and only time he ever hit Dean.

“And Cas?”

The worry is palpable in Jess' voice.

Sam shakes his head, “he’s been growling at anybody who comes hear him, hasn’t let go of his son since he grabbed him out of Meg’s arms. Won’t even let Dean touch him. He walked straight into their room at the motel and closed the door.”

“Probably, delayed den behavior,” Jess says, her voice soft and gentle. “Ideally, Cas would have made a den in their bedroom, in their home. Omegas spend the first ten to thirteen days with their newborns and won’t even let the Alpha in. I don’t think we need to worry too much about it just yet.”

“I didn’t know you were such an expert,” Sam teases lightly. He knows it’s dangerous territory to venture into, doesn’t know if Jess is ready to joke around this subject yet. Sam’s a halfbreed, stuck between two races, he won’t ever sire children of his own. He’ll be an excellent uncle, however. Besides, there are plenty of children looking for a good home and maybe, someday, they might get to adopt.

But, Jess' voice isn’t sad or wistful when she answers, “I thought some of us should be prepared. Figured I’d let you and Dean panic and Cas and I could be the sensible ones.”

Sam laughs, “speaking of being unprepared. John sent Bobby and Charlie away to get….baby stuff.”

“Baby stuff?” She’s the one mocking him now, but Sam welcomes the jibe, grins a little and is certain he can feel his wife’s answering smile.

“You know. Diapers and bottles and clothes and…”

“Sippy cups, cribs, baby wash, baby food, toys, a car seat, toys, sleepwear, blankets, a cot, shoes, hats and bath toys and slip mat, books, special plates, special spoons, and all the baby proofing-“

“Hang on,” Sam says, his mind swimming. How can such a tiny creature possible need all these things? “Special spoons? Can’t he just use a normal spoon?”

“They need to be soft tipped for the baby’s gums. Some even have heat sensitive coating, so they’ll change color if the food is too hot and-“

“Wait, wait,” Sam scrambles off the bed and across the room towards the kitchenette. He finds an old check from a pizza place and manages to scrounge up a pen from his bag. “I should write this down and call Charlie, they are completely unprepared for this task.”

“I have her number, I'll call her."

“Yeah, sure, that’s a good idea.”

And then they are both quiet for a while. He hears Jess yawn and pictures her walking back towards their bed, tucking her cold, bare feet under the covers. Suddenly, he misses her something dreadfully.

“Jess…”

“Hmm.”

“I love you.”

There’s a brief crackle on the phone, “I love you too, Sam.”

There’s another pause, and then nothing, and for a time, he thinks that maybe Jess fell asleep. He’s about to hang up, when her voice drifts back to him, soft and sleepy.

“You said that there were twins?”

A knot tightens in Sam’s stomach and his belly rolls.

“Yeah…Victor told us that Crowley sold him to a guy named Michael Milton.”

“Well, that’s good,” Jess’s voice is muted and careful as if she’s not allowed to point out the silver lining of this horrible situation. “I mean,” she hastens to add as if she’s just read Sam’s thoughts. “If you have his name, you can find him, right?”

“Yeah,” Sam replies, “Charlie says she thinks she’ll be able to locate him, but she’ll need the computer equipment she’s got at home. Her laptop doesn’t have enough juice. Whatever that means.”

“Was it-“

“Another boy,” Sam can feel the corner of his eyes crease into a smile. He’s an uncle. He’s got two nephews and when they’re all safe and sound back in their Territory, he’s going to spoil them rotten.

“It’s…it’s terrible that all this happened to them,” Jess sighs, “but…I’m also kinda glad that…well, that in the end, we’ll get them all back. Cas and his two boys. Does he have a name for them yet?”

“I don’t know,” Sam admits, “dad is just calling it the pup. I guess Dean and Cas haven't really had the time to think about it yet.”

“Well,” and there’s not much more to say to that. “Let me know how they are doing, and I’ll call Charlie.”

“Sure. Goodbye,Jess.”

“Bye, Sam”

  
Dean doesn’t know the hows and whens, but he wakes with a start and realizes he’s in an unfamiliar room. There’s enough evidence to immediately tell him he’s in a motel: mismatching carpet and curtains, uneven kitchen cabinets and the sofa he’s resting on has a hideous floral pattern. He’s alone, but he knows that Cas and his son is behind the blue door.

His son.

He’s been trying to wrangle his head around the concept ever since Samandriel told him Cas had been pregnant when he was captured. He’s heard his pup, wail and cry, seen his scrunched up face and pink fists in Meg’s arms before Cas swooped in and wrapped him up in his arms. He remembers a lick of black hair, a red face, and an unhappy mouth. But, he doesn’t know the feel of his weight in his arms, his scent is unfamiliar to him, washed away among the stale stench of Meg’s house and her perfume. He hasn’t felt the beat of his heart against his chest, the sensation of his tiny toes and fingers, hells- he doesn’t know the color of his eyes.

Blue like Cas, or green like Dean’s?

He knows that pups tend to favor their sire in their appearance, nature’s way of assuring the Alpha biological instincts that he’s not nurturing somebody else’s offspring.

Still, he hopes they are blue.

With more effort than he’d like to admit, Dean manages to pull himself up from the sofa. His wounds are knitted close, but his muscles still protest the beating Victor gave him.

Victor, who John killed and who Dean just left lying there, in his own front yard. He knows that Alpha Edlund would have taken care of his remains, made sure he was burned properly so that no superstitious humans or ambitious witches made away with his bones or ashes.

He doesn’t want to think about Victor or the sting of betrayal.

Had he really been so happy, he didn’t realize how angry Victor was?

His relationship with Cas had been a whirlwind of instant, mutual attraction between them and their wolves. Their Bond that had grown stronger with each day. Dean had gone to the Gathering thinking about having some fun, but for the first time, Dean understood what people talked about when they used expressions like "the other half of my soul." Their courting had been brief and they had exchanged mating claims only two months after meeting. A few weeks later, John had handed them the key to their house.

Dean had only had one major freak out about suddenly settling down before he ever... did anything else.

And sure, they've had their ups and downs. They were both stubborn and strong-willed, but at the end of the day they always curled up together under (or on top of) the covers. It was only...

....it was only in the weeks before Cas was taken that they'd started arguing about money. And it was-

An insisted knock on the door dredges Dean out of his daydreams. He runs a hand through his hair and makes sure his thoughts aren’t visible in his eyes when he opens the door.

“Give me a hand,” Charlie says and suddenly Dean’s arms are full of plastic and paper bags.

“What’s this?”

“Baby stuff!” Charlie yells. She skips down the two steps to the porch and over her red hair Dean sees Bobby hauling a large box from the back of his pickup. He grumbles all the way up the driveway, past Dean and into the motel room, before depositing the box on the rickety kitchen table.

“Don’t just stand there, boy,” he growls, “help us lug this stuff inside.”

Glad of a direct order, Dean dumps the armload of bags into the sofa and then goes outside to collect three bags of groceries, “that goes to my apartment,” Charlie says, “I’m making dinner and then bringing something over.”

“Okay…” Dean says and tracks across the parking lot and leaves the bags outside of Charlie’s room.

When he comes back to his own motel apartment, Bobby has finished carrying in the last box, leaving Dean with a massive pile of stuff in the middle of the living room.

"See you later, Dean," Charlie calls, closing the door behind her.

Dean stands.  
And stares.

He approaches the kitchen table cautiously. There's some fabric of a pastel color sticking out from one of the bags. There's a small box and Dean picks it up and sees that it contains baby's bottles. There's a smiling infant on the cover.

Something hard lodges itself in Dean's throat.   
He swallows, trying to master himself.

"Dean....?"

He turns and sees Cas standing in the doorway. His hair is tufy and ridiculous. He's lost his jacket, and is holding the pup against his chest, one hand supporting its neck, the other cradling his weight. The baby has his ears pressed to Cas's chest, eyes closed, listening to his heartbeat.

"Hey, Cas." Dean tries to ignore the catch in his voice.

Cas stares about the room, shoulders hunched, posture locked in the flight response should he need to retreat.

"I heard...noises. What's going on, what's...all this?"

“That was just Charlie and Bobby, they were.... they got us all this stuff for him.”

Cas takes a step forward and Dean feels all the hard, tight, worried places in chest start to loosen up, even if he’s coaxing Cas like he’s a goddamned skittish animal.

“Stuff?”

“Yes, let’s see…” Dean rummages through one of the bags. “There’s these neat pajamas with feet that look really warm and comfortable. Honestly, they should make these in adult size, that'd be awesome. And look, there are little bees on and it, which is kinda cool, and this one has cars on it, and that’s kinda neat, isn’t it?”

Dean bends down and grabs a handful of the other things he’s seen. “Onesies and socks,” he grabs another handful, holds them out to Sam. “A lot of socks, I don’t think he’ll need a new pair…ever. And hats, because, well, I guess babies get cold? And there’s these tiny boots, only they are kind like socks and I didn’t even know they made shoes this small, and there are toys too, “ he pulls out a stuffed rabbit and a whale, “I think these are the kind made for chewing, so he can chew on them, and there are little books, because he is little and…” he roots through the bags, and pulls up a blue blanket, rubs it between his fingers to distract himself from the fact that the goddamned blanket looks exactly like the one he buried Anna in and if Cas doesn’t say anything soon Dean will forget how to breathe.

“It’s soft.”

He holds the blanket out to Cas, who watches it curiously, almost apprehensively, all responses still set to flight mode. Finally, Cas takes a step closer, runs his fingers carefully over the blanket.

“Yes, it is.”

The pup wakes with a sleepy whimper, and his eyes open and a crack and they are blue. Dean’s breath lodges in his throat, and his eyes seek permission from Cas before he reaches out a hand and carefully touches the back of the pup’s hands. He runs a hand over the shock of dark hair that sticks up whichever way, just like Cas's. The pup wrinkles his nose, squirms a little and carries on sleeping.

“You should, do you want to-“

Dean gives Cas a second, sees the way he fights instincts and logic.

"You should hold him," Cas says, moving closer and quickly and effortlessly, like he's done this a hundred times before, transfers the baby to Dean.

He feels the weight of his son in his arms, warm and solid and he clenches his teeth and tries to master the wave of emotion that’s been building like a torrent under his ribs. The pup turns a sleepy face towards his chest, seeking his body’s warmth. Dean closes his eyes, it feels like his chest is going to burst.

Finally, he let’s loose a shaky breath and the storm is replaced by a strange sensation like he's been wound and now, with his son in his arms, the injury seems to have finally started to heal and its sets loose the pressure in his chest that he’s been carrying for years. The sensation leaves him breathless and lightheaded and he swallows and swallows all the feelings down before they spill from his lips, lets them resonate through their Bond instead. It makes Cas go oddly stiff for a second, before he presses himself close to Dean, resting his forehead against until their breathing is in sync, quieting in counterpoint to the baby’s.

“He should have a name,” Dean says, “ a good, strong one.”

Cas tilts his head. “What name would you like?”

Dean blinks realize there’s water in his eyes and he shifts the weight of his son a little so that he can wipe them away with the back of his hand. Cas doesn’t say anything, but his eyes are heavy on Dean, his presence solid against his frame.

“I dunno, Cas, he looks like a Tom, to me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for: angst, brief discussion of infertility (like, the briefest).


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your continued shower of kudos and kind words, it´s what keeps me writing. This chapter might be a bit rushed, it´s getting late in my corner of the world, but I really wanted to share it with you guys. I hope you enjoy it.

**Warning: see end notes for warnings and spoilers.**

 

**Chapter 23.**

 

Warning:

They sit together on the beaten up, floral sofa for a while.

Dean cradles his son against his chest, staring at him, fascinatined by the shadow of the long, black, lashes against his cheek. The tiny, pink, fingers tucked tightly against each other. Cas dozes against Dean’s shoulder, occasionally jerking awake like he needs to reassure himself that this day hasn’t just been a dream. That Tom is real.

“Maybe he’s hungry,” Dean suggests when Tom starts to fidget in his arms. “I could….make a bottle?” He’s pretty sure that Charlie and Bobby brought something called baby formula. How hard can it be to prepare?

“Yes,” says Cas, reaching over and taking their pup out of Dean’s hands.

Dean makes a bottle for Tom, reading every minute detail on the instructions. He washes the pot three times and watched it like a hawk while it puttered gently under the lid. Never before has he been terrified of boiling water.

Dean stirs and tests and retests the temperature several times. Tom frets impatiently, only mollified when Cas finds a pacifier among the heaps of purchases and offers it to him as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

If just the simple act of making a bottle is freaking him out, how is he going to manage all the other things? Changing his diaper? Which bit goes to the front and which bit to the back? Is he suppose to use a special cream or something? What if he doesn’t fasten the car seat properly? What if the traveling cot isn’t properly set up? How will he know if Tom is too warm or too cold? Tom’s a baby, he can’t just tell Dean these things.  
  
Once the bottle is ready, Cas holds it to the baby’s mouth and Tom grabs at it with both his hands, sucking greedily at it, formula running in thin streams down his chubby cheeks, into the creases of his neck. He kicks at the underside of Cas’s arm, tiny legs wagging. Like the shake of a puppy’s tail. Dean stares, too caught up in the moment to feel awkward about remaining standing.

Tom drinks and Cas’s head droops forward several times before he catches himself just on the brink of sleep, waking with a guilty jerk. Dean feels his exhaustion through the Bond and knows that his own fatigue is echoing back to Cas. The third time Cas’s heads tips forward, Tom is making shuffling sounds around the bottle, pushing it away. Cas places the empty bottle on the table and Dean extends his arms for the baby. Cas surrenders him readily.

Dean tucks Tom against his chest again, his chin resting against his shoulder, one supporting him, the other gently patting his back. He moves slowly about the room, swaying his hips. It’s something he thinks he remembers Mary doing with Sam and he’s rewarded with a tiny burp. He looks to Cas, seeking recognition and acknowledgment, for his clever thinking.

But, Cas is fast asleep, curled up awkwardly on the couch.

“Come on, Cas,” Dean wakes him with a gentle hand to the shoulder, “let’s get to bed, you’ll hurt you back, sleeping on this thing.”

In the bedroom there is a traveling cot that Charlie had the foresight to purchase. He places his son carefully into he cot. He stares for a moment, at the tiny creature, his flesh and blood, sleeping peacefully. His limbs lax against the mattress, arms spread to the side as if he’s inherited Cas’s starfish sprawl. The bed looks naked and for a moment he thinks about finding a duvet or something. Instead he finds a note Charlie has attached to the bed and he pulls back from the cot as if he’s been burned. He wipes a hand across his face, takes a staggering breath.

He walks over to his mate, and helps Cas sit down on the edge of the bed. He tugs off his shoes and helps him ease his arms through the loops of his sweater. He yanks off his pants and places it all neatly on a chair, because Cas is a bit of a neat freak and prefers his clothes to be folded properly.

He kisses the top of Cas’s head and he’s about to pull away, when Cas hands reaches for him. Heavy and clumsy with sleep, it just manages to snag the sleeve of Dean’s shirt and give a soft pull.

“Dean…”

“Hey,” he brushes a tuft of hair away from his eyes. Cas pulls him down for a kiss, warm and sleepy and sweet. Dean presses his forehead to Cas’s temple and shuts his eyes for a moment.

“I’ll be just a moment,” Dean whispers, and with monumental effort, he pulls away. Cas is fast asleep before Dean has left the room.

For a brief second, Dean considers hunting down a beer or something stronger to drink. Just something to settle his nerves. Just until he has these concerns under control. Just this once.

The fridge, however, is empty, and there is nothing edible, for grown-ups, in any of the bags Charlie and Bobby brought. He thinks about texting Sam, because he knows that Sam will be the sensible one and talk him out of doing anything stupid and reckless.

And he knows that it’s and odd mixture tiredness and adrenaline that’s twisting his thoughts, but the truth of it sits heavy in his stomach. He is terrified. Terrified of screwing this up. Of somebody hurting Tom. Of somebody hurting Cas. Of never finding his other pup.

Dean hasn’t even managed to locate his phone when there’s a quiet knock on the door and a cautious, “Dean, can I come in?”

He hurries to unlock the door and let his brother through. Sam takes one look at him and knows immediately that something is up.

“Alright,” he says his no-nonsense kind of voice, hands on his hips. “Spill. What’s bothering you?”

Dean takes a deep breath and sits down on the sofa, resting his head on his knuckles.

“I just…” Dean says, strangled, “kept thinking about all the things that can go wrong. All the things I don’t know about.”

Sam turns to him, frowning, “what do you mean?”

Dean flops onto his back, a hand thrown over his eyes, breathing hard.“I didn’t even know how to make a freaking bottle, Sam. I kept worrying about messing it up, and then I was putting him down and I kept wondering: is he going to be too warm? Too cold? Are pups supposed to sleep on their stomach or their back? What if he stops breathing and I-“

“Take a breath, Dean.”

Dean twists around and breathes, a hitched uneven attempt to fill his lungs with airs.

“What if he falls or gets hurt? What if I drop him? What if the Hunters come back? They know where we live, they’ve been there before, they-”

“Dean-“

Dean pushes himself out of the sofa, hands panting his frustration in the air as the words rush out at the galloping rhythm of his heart beating against his chest. “I was putting him to bed, Sam, wondering if there should be a blanket or pillow or suddenly, but then I found this printout Charlie left and-Shit. With…with all these things to get right when you put a baby down for a nap. No pillows or duvets. No toys or plashes in the cot, because they were all potential suffocating and smothering hazards. They are supposed to sleep on their back, thank the moon I put him down that way and....And I didn’t know any of this!”

“Dean,” Sam hurries across the room. Dean’s deathly pale, swaying a little, his gaze locked somewhere far away.

“Head, knees,” Sam says and nudges his brother towards the sofa until Dean falls into the seat.

Dean swallows and swallows, forces down the sludge of fear and dread that’s rolling around in his stomach. He focuses instead on the sound of Sam’s footstep across the room, the soft voice of Cas’s breathing, the sensation of the Bond between them, warm and solid. He closes his eyes and summons forth the memory of their living room, of falling asleep on the sofa in the middle of a cold and lazy afternoon and waking up with a blue blanket tucked tightly around him. He thinks about early mornings with the rain slanting down the bedroom window, Cas resting his head on Dean´s chest and teasing the soft trail of hair under his belly button.

“Better?” A glass of water appears in front of him and Dean grabs them with hands that aren’t entirely stable.

He takes a sip, the cold liquid soothing the acidic taste in his mouth.

“I….” He empties the glass and rubs the back of his hand over his mouth. “Yeah, better. Thanks.”

“Good,” Sam takes the glass out of Dean’s lax hands and brings it back to the kitchen. He busies himself with the coffee pot, letting Dean have a moment to gather himself. The kettles hisses and Sam dumps two spoons of instant coffee into each cup.

“It’s okay to freak out,” Sam says softly, placing the cup in front of his brother. “Nobody’s expecting you to know everything, Dean, most parents have months to learn about all these things.”

The months, the entire year stolen from them isn’t much comfort. Cas spent them locked up in a goddamned cage and trying to wrap his mind around that fact is enough to make his stomach turn sour again. Sam seems to understand the path his brother’s mind is taking, his mouth twisting into a grimace and his gaze turning to inspect the depths of his coffee cup.

“Sorry,” Sam murmurs, “I wasn’t thinking. You and Cas…it’s a shitty situation, no, that’s not…Christ.” He huffs a nervous laugh.

“What am I going to do, Sammy?” Dean asks his voice brittle in a way it hasn’t been since that night Sam had to haul him into the shower and wash away the stench of sick and blood and alcohol. It hadn’t been the first time he’d have to deal with Dean’s attempt to drown his sorrows and himself. The confession had ebbed out of him with terrible sobs. How he lost his job months ago, too occupied with looking for Cas and trying to cope with his absence. How he was losing the house. It was the night that forced the decision to make Dean move to the farm.

“Dean…” Sam takes a deep breath and takes a seat next to his brother. They sit together for a while in silence, nursing their cups of coffee.

“You must know you aren’t alone,” Sam says, “the whole pack is gonna be excited when you tell them about your baby. They’ll be lining up with well wishes and advice, you know, there’s dad, he helped raised us and we turned out alright.” Sam playfully nudges his brother’s elbow, “even Bobby will be offering advice, Charlie says he was making lists and everything before they left for the shops. I bet they’ll be bickering about getting to babysit.”

Dean tries to picture Bobby, with his greasy jeans, tweed shirt, west and blue baseball hat grumbling his through the selections of onesies and fluffy blankets. It’s easy to forget that Bobby had a daughter once, long before Dean and Sam were born.

“Feeling better?” Sam asks gently?

“Yeah…I think so, thanks.”

Sam smiles and for a moment, it looks like he wants to pull Dean in for a hug. Instead, he settles for a friendly pat on the shoulder.

“I came over to tell you that dad wants to see you.”

“Yeah? What about?” Dean asks.

“I’m not sure,” Sam confesses, “something about what he and Alpha Shurley talked about earlier, I guess. Anyway, I’m here to…babysit.” Sam shrugs a little.

Dean nods. He knows that Sam’s here to keep guard.

Dean makes his way across the yard, the collar of his jacket pulled up against the cold. There’s a tinge of rain in the air and the sharp reminder that winter hasn’t fully relinquished its grip on spring.

John and Charlie are sitting around a badly painted coffee table. There are boxes of Take Away, bottles of beer and cans of soda covering every available surface of the tiny table.

“How are you doing, Dean?” Charlie asks, “how is Cas? How’s the pup?”

“We’re…fine,” Dean says, waving away an offer of beer. His dad frowns, but doesn’t comment when Dean grabs a can of coke instead.

“Alpha Shurley is kindly indicating that we should leave first thing tomorrow morning,” John says, taking a long swing from a bottle of beer.

“Because of Victor?” Charlie asks.

“That was implied,” John huffs, “while most of the Pack trusts Alpha Shurley’s version of the events and that everything is in accordance with the Old Ways, Meg is managing to scream up a storm and she has a couple of symphatetic ears listening.”

Dean’s chest feels suddenly tight. Would Meg really try to steal him back? John stares at the wid-eyed, frightened look in Dean’s eyes and hurries to add, “she’s all bluster, Dean, understandably so. She’s lost her mate and the child she cared for like her own. It’s better for all if we go home.”

“But, what about Micheal Milton,” Dean says, “we still need to find him. ”

“And we will,” Charlie assures him, “back at home I have the necessary equipment to locate him.”

“So,” Dean runs a hand across his face, “we go home, you figure out where the hell this guy lives and then we´ll-“ we’ll do what ever is necessary a nasty voice supplies.

John presses his lips to a thin line. He studies Dean, and Dean is pretty sure that his dad is reading him like an open book because he says: “We’ll first try and take the necessary, peaceful steps, to resolve the situation. What happened with Victor was…”

“No more than he deserves,” Dean says viciously, “he got off too easy. We should have stuck a silver collar around him, cut off his Link with the others and let his mind rot. We should have stuck him in a cage to be poked and prodded, kept like a pet on display. Him and his mate.”

“Dean,” John says firmly, “I understand why you are angry, and I agree with you. What you should understand is that Pack politics is necessary for this exact reason. To avoid blood feuds. There’s too few us already, we can’t risk hostility between Territories. We can’t risk humans meddling in our affairs again.”

Dean knows this, of course. It’s a lesson integrated into every pup and repeated again and again. Respect the Alpha, the hierarchy in the Pack. Respect the laws and rituals that govern the Territories. They have been set down to protect hot-blooded shifters from dragging their Pack into conflict with other Territories, because they can so easily spill over into the human’s world. They have a tentative compromise with the humans, represented by the collars they have agreed to wear. But, there are always those looking for an excuse to return to the times when those collars were attached to chains.

“Do you think Meg try to dispute the claim at the Gathering?” Dean asks collecting his thoughts.

“Only if she’s an idiot,” John scoffs, “this is a matter of blood, Dean, she might persuade those who don’t know the full story, but Alpha Shurley will make sure it won’t reach beyond his Territory. And, even if it did, I promise you that there’s not a Gathering that is going to separate a happy, healthy, pup from its family.”

“Good.” His dad’s assurance loosens the knot in his chest. “That’s….good.”

John opens his mouth, closes it and pauses, his face softening, “did you talk about a name?”

“Err….” Dean feels suddenly self-conscious, worried that, for some reason, John won’t approve of his decision. The only decision John has ever really approved of is Dean’s decision to bond with Cas.

“Thomas. Tom.” It feels strange to say the name out loud. It’s only been a week since Samandriel told him that Cas had been carrying his pup when Crowley took him, and it’s difficult to wrap his mind around the concept that the pup, the very real child, his son, is sleeping in his motel room with Cas.

“Tom,” John gives a thoughtful nod, “a good name. It means “twin,” did you know?”

Dean shakes his head. The reminder that Tom has a brother out there, somehow makes the name seem more fitting.

“Alright,” John empties his beer bottle and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “It’s been a…a long day. I suggest we all catch an early night so that we’ll be ready bright and early for tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” Charlie rises from her chair with a slightly awkward smile, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

John follows them both to the door, waving easily goodbye to Charlie, but as Dean is about to bid him goodnight, John suddenly his shoulder and tugs him into a rough, graceless hug. The movement is clunky and awkward, the Winchester aren’t huggers, at most you’ll get a slap on your shoulder. Dean can’t really remember the last time his dad hugged him, when did John decide that his sons were too old to be shown real affection?. His arms settles around John’s shoulders and he feels his father’s breath, tinged with the scent of alcohol and leather and cigarette. Dean closes his eyes and wills himself to remember this moment and for his own children never to have to try and remember when their father last hugged them.

“Goodnight, son,” John says, untangling his limbs from Dean’s embrace.

“Yeah,” Dean struggles to clear away the swell of emotions in his throat. “Night, dad.”

Before he closes the door, Dean catches the soft upwards tilt of his mouth. It makes something warm replace the anxiety in Dean’s chest.

  
The car seat is a massive thing with buckles and clasps and buttons and looks like belongs in a space shuttle. It takes Sam and him over an hour to install it, making sure to follow every prompt in the instruction manual down to a T. According to the advertisement, it’s the kind of chair that swivels around, to make it easy to strap your children into the harness.

Tom stares at him through his thick, long lashes as Dean gently coaxed his arms through the buckles and fiddled with the straps until they are in accordance with the safety instructions. Then he clicks the chair in place and gives Tom one of his chewing toys. He puts it immediately into his mouth, wrinkles his nose a little at the taste and sensation, his gaze locking on the large, shatterproof mirror angled above his seat. He coos, a dribble of spit runs down his cheek. Dean exhales a sigh of relief and wonders if his heart will ever be able to accommodate all these new feelings.

“Are you sure you don’t want us to drive with you?” Bobby asks for the third time.

“I’d rather have you guys drive on and get ahead start on looking for Michael Milton. Besides, we’re going to have to stop for the night and not all motels are as accepting of large groups of shifters shoving up on their doorstep. It´s best to avoid the attention.”

Bobby grunts in agreements, “you’re probably right. Still, we have these portable phones with us. You will call if there’s any….trouble.”

Dean doesn’t really want to think about all the potential meaning attached to Bobby’s last words.

“Yeah,” Dean shakes his head a little, “I think we could use the…quiet,” he steals a glance at Cas, already tucking himself into the backseat. He’s still a little reserved and prone to sudden, fierce, display of den instincts. As Dean learned earlier this morning when he walked in unannounced on Cas’s wolf and found himself suddenly sprawled on his back. Cas had apologies profoundly, even if Dean assured him there was nothing to feel sorry bout.

“Alright,” Bobby hunches shoulders and straightens his caps, “have a good drive and let us know where you’ll be staying the night.”

Dean nods. A few minutes later he’s waving them goodbye, as Charlie and Sam settle into into the back of Bobby’s car while John takes the wheel. He waits until the car disappears around a corner before he settles behind the wheel of the Impala. He catches’s Cas’s watchful eyes in the rearview mirror and the slight dip of his chin. They are going home.

  
Cas sits in the backseat, leaving Dean alone in the front of the car. He’s painfully aware of the baby strapped into the contraption in the backseat. Dean, who is used to treat speed limits as suggests rather than law, finds himself staring at the needle of the speedometer and keeps his fingers away from fiddling with the cassette player. He’s not taking any unnecessary risks.

The large mirror lets Dean steal a glimpse of his son and his mate. Cas is watching him attentively, his hands curled around the blue blanket that rests in his lap, ready to leap into action at the first sign of distress. But, Tom is nattering away, kicking his feet and alternating between waving his toy at his own reflection and chewing on it. He sleeps for a while, fingers curling around the toy, completely oblivious to his parents’ anxiety.

After a couple of hours, Tom starts to fuss and whimper. He drops his toy to the floor and refuses to accept it when Cas picks it up. His lips twists and then he explodes into in a wail so fierce it makes Dean wince. Cas tries to console him with the blue blanket and distract him with other toys, but Tom’s having none of it. His tiny fists quivers, his feet kicks against the car seat, his entire body pressing against the straps. He screams and the sound of it lodges achingly in Dean’s chest. Cas finds his pacifier, and Tom accepts it begrudgingly, for about half a minute before he pulls it out and continues his wailing.

“He is upset,” Cas says, his calm voice a stark contrast to Tom’s furious cries. Dean finds himself gripping the wheel tightly, wondering how such a tiny body can make so much noise.

“There’s a stop up ahead,” Dean says.

They pull over at small rest stop that looks over a stretch of yellow grass and dead trees. Cas is quick to reach over and unbuckle Tom from his seat and wrapping him into his arms. He cries and shakes his fists at Cas, who makes soothing hushing noises. And then, little by little, the baby’s crying peters out to quiet, wet, mewls.

“He’s just hungry,” Cas explains. They had stopped three hours ago for some lunch, where Dean had fed Tom some unpleasant looking baby porridge, with the result that they both needed to change their shirts.

“We got that fancy bottle-warmer thingy, hang on, let me get it.”

He steps out of the car and opens the boot, staring at boxes and bags that Bobby and Charlie bought them. He finds the box at the top of his own overnight bag. A grey sleeve that looks like heating pad that you wrap around the bottle, with a charger that fits into the cigarette lighter in the dash. Then, he finds the bottle he prepared earlier.

When he emerges from the trunk, Cas has, with speed unbeknownst to Dean, managed to change Tom’s diaper, dried his tears and washed his face. As soon as he sees it, the baby makes grabby hands for the bottle.

“Sorry, buddy gotta warm it up first,” Dean says. Tom looks at him with something akin to betrayal and his lower lip starts quivering again. Dean hurries to the front of the car and plugs in the charger. He hears the beginning of some wet mewls that Cas manages to divert by distracting Tom with a squeaking toy. A few minutes later, the bottle is ready and Tom latches onto it, one hand gripping at the flask, the other gripping Cas’s shirt as if to prevent him from leaving and taking the food with him.

Dean uses the opportunity to stretch his aching legs and back. He’s had a night of drifting in and out of dreams and wakefulness, tugged there by sensation of the Bond, warm and content. They’ve been on the road for almost six hours and they’ve still got miles ahead of them before they are home. He thinks they should probably start looking for a motel, some place friendly to shifters where they can relax, even if he knows he won’t be able to let his guard down before they are back amongst the Pack. Ideally, he wouldn’t mind shifting and go for a run, give his wolf a chance to exercise its senses. The collar hangs heavy around his neck. He knows it’s not a guarantee against hunters and he’s not about to leave his mate and pup unguarded.

Two hours later, they pull into a small, town with a scattering of houses, a church, a tiny gas station and a small motel on the outskirts of town. It’s old, but well tended with a fresh coat of paint and a neon sign that promises cable and air conditioning. The receptionist is a bored looking teenager who is too busy tapping away at her phone to spare Dean anything beyond a cursory glance. He asks if there are any available rooms and if she knows of a place with decent takeaway.

“Sure,” she drawls, “there’s a pizza place. Out the door, about one block down to your left, and then you’re there.”

“Thanks,” Dean says, sliding over a fake credit card. Just in case, John explained. In case Meg has more connections then Alpha Shurley seems to think she has. Just in case Crowley is looking for his missing pets.

Dean checks the perimeter and makes notes of the location of the nearest exits and the quickest retreat to the car.

Tom is sleeping soundly and he doesn’t even wake when Cas carefully pries him out of the car seat. He tucks him against his chest and wraps the blanket around him to keep out the evening chill.

Dean guides his mate and son down the gravel path to their room. It’s spacious with a queen bed, a kitchenette, an ensuite bathroom with an actual bathtub. The room smells faintly of spices and lavender, and Dean sticks the offending potpourri inside a plastic bag to hide the smell. It takes him two more trips to collect the traveling cot and the necessary belongings.

“I’m going to get us something to eat, there’s a pizza place just down the road. You want anything special?”

Cas shakes his head. He’s standing by the window with Tom tucked under his chin and looks so at ease with the situation, with the pup, that Dean can’t help the smidgen of envy that makes itself at home in his heart. How can Cas be so calm about everything that’s happened? How did he manage to make the transition into parenthood so seamlessly? Is he not worried about Meg and Crowley? Where is his anger at Micheal Milton and his anxiety for Tom’s brother?

Dean hurries outside and down the street, hands tucked into the pockets of his jeans. He’s relieved when the feeling is replaced, even if it is replaced with fear.

It takes them two days to make the twelve hour journey home. Tom’s an absolute champ at road trips, keeping a running commentary of observations and explanations. He cries when he’s hungry, or when his diaper needs changing, and on one occasion when Dean dared to turn on the radio and they landed on a station that played jazz music. Cas is able to distinguish between all these various types of cries and interpret Tom´s desires. Dean wonders if the baby came with a secret instruction manual that only Cas was privy to.

Dean doesn’t allow himself to relax until they cross the border to Winchester Territory and he’s back on his own turf and within the safety of his Pack.   
  
They pull into their own driveway, their home in the early hours of the evening. He folds himself out of the car, stretching until he feels his joints creak and snap. His wolf fidgets and pulls closer to Dean’s mind.

“I gotta…” Dean makes a vague gesture at their yard and the row of trees stretching along the perimeter. “Will you be alright?”

“Yes, Dean,” Cas says, looking slightly amused. He fiddles with a few latches on the car seat, and detaches the top of it, and it comes loose with a handle that allows him to carry it like a basket. Dean didn’t even know it could do that.

Dean pulls off his jacket and hangs it on the porch, shredding his clothes as he walks. His muscles shift and slides under his skin, his sight bursts into colors, the green and brown of the trees, the blue ribbon of Cas’s scent, braided with one that reminds him of a picture he saw once of a lagoon. The clear blue of the sea and the green glow of sand and reef. Tom’s scent.

The wolf trails around the wall of their house, looking for unfamiliar scents and finding none. Sam, John, Jess and Samandriel have been here recently. He thinks John probably told the rest of the pack to leave them alone until Cas’s den instinct retreated. Dean’s grateful for these days of privacy, so that he waddle through the myriad of thoughts and emotions battling for control.

 

Half an hour later, Dean feels the slightest twinge on the Bond. Once. Twice. Five times. Like somebody is playing it like a chord. The prickle disappears, but it has caught Dean’s attention and it pulls him to Cas. He shifts pack and tugs on his clothes, heading inside.

Cas’s jacket hangs on its peg, his shoes are placed neatly against the wall and Tom’s carrier is sitting in the kitchen. Dean follows his nose and finds Cas standing in their living room. He’s cradling Tom in his arms, the baby is fast asleep, wrapped securely in his blue blanket. The only moment is the rise and falls of his chest and the slight twitching of his pacifier. One of Tom’s hand is wrapped around Cas’s finger. Cas standing very still, and Dean steps closer to assess the strange expression that’s taken hold of his eyes.

“Dean, you need to take Tom. Please,” Cas’s words are tied with desperation.

“What’s wrong?”

“Please, Dean, you need to take him.”

“Cas-“ Dean braces a hand on Cas’s shoulder and his other gathers around his son, lifting him out of Cas’s limp hands. Dean feels Cas’s pulse thundering under his hands.

“Cas,” he calls gently, “are you allright?”

In the space of a heartbeat, Cas’s gaze finds his and then Dean sees only the white of his eyes. He instinctually shifts his weight so that he can brace Cas against his side as his knees buckle and give out. Their Bond snaps as if cut in half, the sensation of it making Dean flinch in pain. He half falls, half guides Cas’s twitching body towards the floor, so that he’s in a sitting position, before he can prop him over on his side. The jerky movements startles Tom, who blinks sleepy eyes at Dean, and then his eyes go wide and fearful. He drops his pacifier and he lets out a shrill, sharp cry. He kicks his legs and flails his arms.

“Shit,” Dean curses, shifting his hands to cradle Tom against his chest, supporting his back and head with one arm, the other one trying to, uselessly, help Cas.

Jolts of energy surges through Cas’s muscles, his head jerking against Dean’s legs, the back of his head knocks against his knee.

“Shit, shit, shit!”

Tom screams, his face red, fat tears streaming down his cheeks. Dean steps away from Cas for a second to tries and gently rock Tom. “Hey, hey,” he coos. There’s a steady pause as if he’s judging Dean’s attempt to settle him, and then Tom starts wailing again.

With his free hand Dean fumbles for the phone in his pocket. His thumb finds a speed dial, and Dean doesn’t even care who’s number he’s calling.

“Dean?”

Cas’s body jerks on the floor, tremors running through the length of his body, his hands curled in odd little claws against his chest.

Thank the moon, it’s Sam.

“Sam,” Dean says under his breath, “shit, Sam, Cas is- he’s having another seizure and-“ a earsplitting wail pierces the rest of his words.

“I’m calling Pamela,” Sam says, “Dean, move the furniture away from Cas, get him onto his side and try and protect his head.”

“Yes. Okay,” Dean drops his phone. He’s already running towards the kitchen and quickly places him the carrier, buckling in him. Tom’s screams so hard his entire body shakes with the effort of containing the noise.

“Sorry,” Dean gasps, his heart clenching, “sorry.”

He hurries back to the living room and places the carrier on the floor by the doorway leading to their bedroom. He pushes the chair and the coffee table away, to give Cas’s flailing limbs, room to work through the spasms without the risk of Cas hurting himself. Tom’s wails ring in his ears.

Dean falls to his knees next to Cas, grabs the arm furthers for him and gently tugs him so that he’s lying on his side. He pulls Cas’s right arm across his chest until and gently eases his head to the side. Spit and drool dribbles down the length of his chin. And then, to his immense relief, the spasms stops and Cas goes still.

(It’s okay Cas, it’s okay.) Dean wishes the words through their Bond, even he feels tumble off the end into a void.

Tom is still crying, every sound a stab at Dean’s heart.

But he can’t leave Cas, not yet. He places a hand on Cas’s forehead, lets his fingers comb through his hair. With each caress, he feels Cas stirring to wakefulness.

“Dean…” his brow furrows, his lips move soundlessly around words that won’t cooperate.

“Hello, Cas,” Dean wipes at his eyes and Cas closes his own for a moment. When he opens them there’s weary uncertainty in them.

“Ss..wrong,” Cas garbles. He tries to roll onto his stomach, and when he’s unable to turn around, he presses his hands against the floor and tries to push himself up. Dean places a gentle hand on his back, curls it into the fabric of Cas’s shirt.

“You had a seizure, Cas,” Dean’s voice is controlled to the last consonant. He drags his hand slowly up along Cas’s back to caress the back of his hair and brush through his hair.

Cas turns so that his cheek presses into the palm of Dean’s hands. Their Bond is rekindled, a cautious spark that seems to be testing the strength of the path before it dares to connect the two of them again. Cas eyes heavy with exhaustion and struggling to remain open.

“'Om?” He asks.

“He’s fine, just…scared.”

“He’s…crying,” Cas words sound thick and heavy like his mouth is filled with cotton. His body heaves as if he’s channeling all his energy to try and push himself off the floor. Dean places a hand on his shoulder again.

“I’ll get him.”

“He’s…”

“I’ll take care of him,” Dean murmurs.

Dean forces himself to part from Cas. He turns to his pup, sees very the small body is still trembling with anguish, his face flush with exertion.

“Sorry, buddy,” Dean whispers, lifting Tom out of the carrier and gently cradles him against his chest. He kisses his cheek, tastes salt. “It’s okay,” he tucks his son closer, rests his cheek against the top of his head, “he’s okay,” he whispers into his hair.

Bit by bit, Tom’s cries dwindles and his body goes warm and lax against Dean. He sniffles a little, his tiny fingers tugging at Dean’s shirt, wraps it around his fist. Dean finds his pacifier and Tom accepts it happily. He grabs hold of the blue blanket when Dean offers it at well, and he pulls it close to his face with a wet sniffle. Between one heartbeat and the next, Tom falls asleep, his hand still in Dean’s shirt, hanging on as if for dear life.

"I know how you feel," Dean whispers and hides his face into Tom´s downy hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for: panic attack, graphic description of seizure, brief mention of past child loss.


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angst, fluff, domestic and a small surprise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all your words of encouragement. This chapter is a bit of a filler fic, so the pace might feel a bit stilted. Still, I hope you enjoy it.   
> It´s unbeated and riddled with medical inaccuracies.

**Warning: some angst, some discussion of seizures and aftercare.**

 

**Chapter 25.**

 

He isn’s sure how long he waits for Sam and Pamela to arrive.

 

It feels like forever.

 

When he finally hears the sound of gravel crunching under heavy tires, he's not sure it's real, until he hears his brother’s voice calling through the house.

 

“We’re in here,” says Dean, struggling to keep his voice calm.

 

He holds Tom, cradled in his arms, swaying gently from side to side, the movement doing more to sooth him than the pup. Tom has cried himself to exhaustion and finally dropped off, but even in his sleep, he’s got a fierce hold on his blue blanket.

 

Pamela pushes past them and falls immediately to her knees next to Cas. Dean picks up a string of soft questions and the omega’s slurred replies. Her fingers find Cas’s pulse along his throat. After, she places a palm on his forehead, before grabbing a pillow from the sofa and tucking it under his head.

 

“He’s alright, Dean,” Pamela murmurs.

 

“Okay, okay, good,” Dean’s breath shakes, his fingers twisting into Tom’s blanket.

 

“You okay?” Sam’s eyes travel from Cas to Dean and then, finally to Tom.

 

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Dean swallows, trying to master himself. “Would you hold him?”

 

Before Sam has the time to formulate a response, Dean is depositing his nephew into his arms.

 

Sam curls protectively around him, shifting his arms until Tom lies snug against his chest. He stares at Tom, his fingers twitching against the blanket.

 

“Do I just…?”

 

“Yeah, just…watch his head. He likes it if you move a little.”

 

Tom wrinkles his nose and wriggles in Sam’s arms. He sees a sliver of blue as Tom's eyes slit open. Sam holds his breath and braces himself for the pup's cries. Tom regards him for a long, thoughtful moment, and then seems to accept the familiarity of Sam’s scent and settles into his arms, his eyes falling shut. Sam’s eyes goes almost comically wide before they go soft and watery. Like the rest of them, Sam’s heart is in trouble as far as Tom’s concerned.

 

 

Pamela places a hand on Dean’s arm and guides him few steps away from Cas. “Witnessing a seizure can be a terrifying experience, but you did everything alright, Dean. Cas will be fine.”

 

“Fine?” Dean hisses through clenched teeth, “how’s it fine that he-“

 

“Dean,” Pamela’s grip on his arm tightens, squeezing back his anger, “listen to me, please.”

 

“I’m listening.”

 

“We’re going to take care of your mate first, and then we’ll talk, but I need you to keep your calm, or I’m going to ask you to leave.”

 

“I’m calm,” Dean says. He takes a deep, steadying, breath and repeats the words with more conviction.

 

“Do you know how long the seizure lasts?” she asks.

 

Dean scrubs a hand across his face. The memory of Cas’s helpless, horrid, spasms sits like a stone in his chest. “Shit, no, it seemed like a long time,” the awful twitching, the terrible scream, “but- maybe a minute and a half?”

 

“That’s good news,” says Pamela. Dean is relieved to find that she’s sincere. “Let’s move him and get him cleaned up.”

 

 

The pungent smell of urine pricks Dean’s nose. He sees a large, dark stain on the front of Cas’s jeans. A wire of guilt coils itself in Dean’s stomach for having left his mate passed out in his own filth.

 

“It’s a normal reaction to a seizure,” Pamela says quietly.

 

Dean kneels next to his sleeping mate and gently cards his fingers through his hair. He hoists Cas’s arm over his shoulder and lifts him into his arm, ignoring the damp patch spreading across his shirt. Cas is so deeply asleep, that the movements don't even make him stir.

 

Dean carries him to the bedroom and then he places Cas onto the bed. He removes Cas’s shoes, followed by his socks, which have soaked up some of the fluids.

 

There’s a gentle knock on the door and then Pamela appears with a plastic bag for Cas’s filthy clothes.

 

“I’m going to prepare the bathroom, where can I find some clean clothes?”

 

Dean tosses the socks and shoes into the plastic bag. He points to the chest of drawers opposite the bed “bottom drawer,” says Dean, “there should be some sweats. Boxers and socks are n the top drawer.”

 

“Thanks,” Pamela says. He hears the sound of drawers opening and closing before Pamela disappears out of the bedroom.

 

Dean undoes Cas’s pants and pulls them down, lifting Cas’s hips to nudge them past his thighs, before he yanks them off and throws them into the plastic bag. Cas’s limbs are warm and heavy with sleep and he remains lax against Dean’s movements, even when Dean grips the edge of his boxers and drags them down. The unpleasant scent of urine stings his nose and Dean rolls the wet fabric down his legs, before they join the rest of the clothes in the bag.

 

The hem of his henly is wet, so he tosses that as well. Pamela appears again, this time carrying a box of baby sanitary napkins. She hands them to Dean, who uses them to clean his hands.

 

“I’ll toss this into the washer,” Pamela says and picks up the bag of soiled clothes before Dean can tell her that he’ll do it. “The bathroom is ready.”

 

“Alright,” Dean puts one hand under Cas’s knees, the other under his back and lifts him, up far too easily. He knows Cas lost weight during his captivity, but he’s done a good job of hiding it under his clothes. Naked, in Dean’s arms, he sees the stark outline of his mate’s ribs pressing against shallow skin, the dark circles under his eyes, the sharp jut of his shoulder blades and his knobby knees. Swallowing down a bezoar of emotions, Dean cradles Cas against his chest and carries him quickly to the bathroom.

 

Pamela has piled several towels at one end of the bathtub to keep Cas’s head from hitting the hard and cold porcelain. There’s a pile of clothes by the sink and a couple of washcloths Dean doesn’t remember ever having bought.

 

Dean lowers Cas gently into the tub, making sure his arms are over the edge and that he’s in no danger of sliding down or hurting himself. Then, he rolls up the sleeves of his shirt and grabs the shower head, letting the water run until it’s warm and soothing. He lets the water flow gently over Cas’s legs, until the pale yellow streaming running towards the drain turns blank. Dean sets the shower head aside and grabs a bottle of soap, squeezing out a suitable dollop in his hand. He washes Cas's left ankle and shin, repeating the actions on his other side.

 

When he brings the shower back to rinse off the soap, Cas startles awake, eyes suddenly alert, hands gripping the edge of the tub. Their Bond thrums with fear.

 

“Hey, Cas,” Dean sets the shower heard aside and places a hand over Cas’s, firm enough so that he can feel the weight of it, but light enough that he can easily slip free should he want to.

 

“Dean,” Cas stutters, clambering clumsily against the slippery surface of the bathtub. “What…what happened?” he asks, before taking stock of himself, “where’s Tom…why am I naked?”

 

“Do you remember your seizure?”

 

“I…yes,” Dean sees the moment clarity dawns on Cas and utter desperation foods his face, jolting through their Bond and making Dean’s wolf quiver with unease.

 

“Hey, it’s okay,” Dean slides his hand up Cas’s arm to his shoulder. Cas hands moves sightlessly across Dean’s chest, his hand fisting his shirt and he yanks himself upwards, as he pulls Dean down until his face is mashed against Dean’s neck. He can feel Cas shaking, so he wraps both his arms around him, holding him in place.

 

“Tom?” Cas asks again his chest

 

“He’s fine, he’s sleeping. Sam is watching over him. And don’t you dare apologizes,” Dean says roughly when he feels the beginning of a regret lingering in their Bond. “You hear me, Cas?”

 

“Yes,” he says, he grounds his forehead into Dean’s shoulder. “I hear you.”

 

“Good,” Dean twists his head and manages to place a kiss against Cas’s temple. "I love you, don't you dare believe that's ever going to change. Do you want to do the rest yourself?”

 

Cas nods and Dean untangles himself from his arms.

 

The muscles in Cas's jaws clenches as he scoots across the bathtub to reach the shower head.

 

Dean takes a seat on the toilet lid, keeping a watchful eye on Cas as he scrubs himself clean. His movements are slow and lethargic, and Dean thinks he’s running on sheer, stupid, will not be a burden.

 

Finally, Cas turns the shower off. He remains sitting for a while, his hands gripping the edge of the tub so hard, his arms quivers.

 

Dean stands and offers him his hand.

 

“Up you go,” he says, trying to inject a note of playfulness into his tone.

 

Cas studies it, stubbornness and need warring for control. Deciding not to trust his legs to support him, Cas grabs his hand and Dean quickly slides closer, presses against his side and hoists him from the bathtub. The omega places two cautious feet on the floor, his entire body wobbling with the effort of keeping him upright.

 

“Thanks,” Cas grimaces, swaying and eventually collapsing against Dean’s frame, his long, wet, body soaking Dean’s front. Cas’s fringe brushes against his chin and Dean can’t help but press his lips against his flush skin. They share a breath for a moment.

 

“Let’s get you into some clothes and under the covers.”

 

He reaches back and grabs a towel from the sink and hands it to Cas, who scrubs it against his thighs and back, one hand gripping Dean’s arm for balance. When Cas is dry, he tugs on a soft, well worn pair of sweatpants and Dean helps him navigate his legs into the right holes.

 

“I haven’t needed help getting dressed since I was two,” Cas mutters as Dean yanks a Henley over his head and helps him pull this lax limbs through the arms.

 

“Dad likes to remind me that I wore my shirts backward until I was six,” Dean says darkly. It has the desired effect, Cas’s chuckles tiredly, the corners of his eyes creasing in mirth for the first time in days.

 

“I’ll tuck you in as well,” Dean teases.

 

“Thank you,” Cas says and the rush of affection through their Bond almost knocks him over.

 

“There's no need to thank me.”

 

Cas hums sleepily and laces their fingers together. Dean squeezes his hands in his and keeps one arm wrapped around Cas’s shoulder as he moves him towards their bedroom.

 

Somebody, probably Pamela, has changed the sheets on their bed and removed the large, brown blanket from the chest in the living room and draped it over the duvet. He pulls back the covers and tucks Cas into bed, on Dean’s side, until only the top of his head is visible.

 

“Tom…?” Cas murmurs. He’s fighting sleep, his hands curling into the duvet, eyes drifting close.

 

“I’ll put the cot in here and we can sort it out tomorrow,” Dean whispers.

 

No doubt Cas’s denning instincts will have a relapse now that they are home, back in their den.

 

Cas falls asleep between one yawn and the next. Their Bond vibrates contently, comforting Dean’s rattled nerves.

 

 

Eventually, Dean dumps his own clothes, soaked and with a sour, unpleasant tint to them, into the washer and takes a quick shower. He lets heat, and the pounding water against his skin, beat away all the tension, leaving him raw and exhausted. He staggers out of the shower and drags the mist away from the mirror. He studies his own reflection, lets himself get familiar with the stubbles, the creases around his eyes and the sudden streaks of silver at his temples.

 

In the living room, he finds Sam sitting on the sofa with Tom still asleep in his arms.

 

“How’s Cas doing?”

 

“He’s asleep. Pamela says he’ll be fine.”

 

“Okay,” Sam nods, his shoulders slumping. He looks down at his nephew, “okay, that’s good.”

 

“Can you hang onto him a little longer, I’m going to put the travel cot into the bedroom and then I’ll put Tom to bed.”

 

“Yeah, sure.”

 

Dean wrangles the cot from the trunk of the Impala and manages to unpack it without waking Cas.

 

Afterward, he takes Tom from Sam’s arms, who seems almost reluctant to let go of his nephew.

 

“Thanks for the help, Sam.”

 

“Anytime, Dean,” Sam stifles a yawn, “I’m going to head on home. Pamela says she’ll stay, just in case.”

 

“Alright,” even with Pamela’s assurances that Cas is alright, he feels doubly reassured by the healer’s presence. “Good night.”

 

“Good night, Dean.”

 

He carries Tom to the bedroom. Cas has already changed him into a soft, one-piece footed cotton sleep suit, the one with the cars. “We’ll get you a proper bed tomorrow, buddy,” Dean whispers, placing a kiss on his son’s head, before placing him into bed. Tom smacks his lips, his hands curling into fists. Dean is pretty sure he could spend the rest of the night watching his pup sleep, but he forces himself to pull away and let his little family sleep in peace.

 

 

Dean finds Pamela sitting at the kitchen table, warming her hands on a cup of tea. She seems to be studying the bottom of her cup, lost in some thought that Dean’s not privy to.

 

“Is he sleeping?”

 

“Yeah,” Dean runs his fingers through his hair, “I’m grabbing a beer, do you want one?”

 

“Thanks,” Pamela nods.

 

He grabs a bottle from the fridge and slides it across the table, tipping his own in a half salute before taking a large swing of it.

 

They sit for a moment in shared silence. Dean picks at the beer label until it disintegrates between his fingers. Finally, he clears his throat.

 

“The first time Cas had a seizure, you said you wouldn’t be able to tell what’s wrong without taking him to a hospital for testing. Is that…is that something we should consider?”

 

Dean dreads the very thought of it. He’d gone once with Sam, when Sam was eight and had suffered a complicated break in his right arm. A human hospital with all its smell of death, disease and disinfectant is the worst place for a sensitive nose. Even his dad, who is always in complete control of himself and his wolf, had been anxious and terse.

 

“The balance between our minds, between the wolf and man, is very complex,” Pamela says, carefully weighting her words. “It is possible that this balance has been irrevocably damaged by Castiel’s long exposure to the silver collar and that the seizure he experiences are a result of that. For the most part, his mind is able to maintain the balance, but sometimes there’ll be…. A struggle for control, and that’s when he has the seizures.”

 

“A bit like epilepsy?” Dean asks.

 

“Exactly,” nods Pamela.

 

“Alright,” Dean says around a lump in his throat. “How do we fix him?”

 

“There’s medication,” Pamela hedges, “but I do not think anybody knows how it will affect a shifter. There’s never been a study on it…I mean, Castiel’s case is unique, /nobody/ should have been able to return after months forced into a shift.”

 

She manages a smile, “I think he only managed because of your profound bond. Honestly, it makes me believe in soulmates." She huffs a laugh. "Anyways, as long…as long as the seizures don’t become frequent or last longer than tree minutes, he doesn’t really need to be fixed. It’s a manageable condition, plenty of people live with epilepsy, Dean. Some might only suffer a few seizures.”

 

“So…we just wait and see?” He wraps both his hands around the bottle to hide their tremors. There’s nothing he dislikes more than sitting idly by. He feels like he should be doing something, anything, to help his mate.

 

“He should avoid what could be possible triggers,” Pamela says calmly. “Sleep deprivation, alcohol, stress, low blood sugar, excess caffein, flashing lights. He should be sure to shift regularly. Do you know if there were any specific triggers for this attack?”

 

“I wasn’t here,” Dean admits, “he was alone with Tom. I felt it, though before it happened. Like something was pulling our Bond. Cas knew something was happening to, he put Tom in my arms before it started, but… I don’t know…. He’s not been sleeping well and…. it’s been stressful with…everything,” he settles on, feeling ridiculous.

 

Goddammit. He should have paid better attention, made sure that Cas ate and slept properly. A few hours dozing in the car, junk food, and a couple of hours in his shift isn’t enough to keep a mind healthy. He’s going to make sure that Cas spends a few hours tomorrow with his wolf, and that he has a proper meal. Steak, he thinks, with corn and potatoes and salad. He’ll ask Jess to make that dressing Cas always waxes poetically about.

 

“It’s been hard on you too, Dean.” Pamela leans back in her chair.

 

“I’m fine,” Dean says, softening his words with a strained smile, “really. It’s…good.”

 

Pamela twists her lips into a half smile and then leans over the table and pats Dean’s hand. “I’m going to bed, and so should you. I’ve already made up the guest room. You’ll be wanting to turn it into a nursery soon, I reckon.”

 

“Yeah,” Dean says, images of softly painted blue walls, of cots and tiny dressers with miniature outfits and toys and blankets flooding his mind.

There should be two of everything, a voice reminds him, you need to find Michael Milton and Tom’s brother.

 

 

Dean wakes sometimes in the early hours by Tom’s cries and the dip of the bed as Cas rises. The cries give away to wet mewling and sniffles. He lets himself enjoy the soft sound of his mate and pup moving through the room before he feels the chilly draft from the corridor. He drags himself out of bed, stuffing his legs into a pair of pants, and his bare feet into a pair of slippers before finding his way to the kitchen.

 

The kitchen he is assaulted by the sharp, bright light of a sunny spring morning. Tom’s been strapped into a comfortable looking booster chair, his bare feet kicking as he chews on his toy. His clear, blue eyes are following Cas’s every move as the omega flits about the kitchen, preparing a bottle of formula.

 

Dean rubs grit from his eyes, the image remains the same.

 

“Morning,” he murmurs.

 

Cas turns and smiles, the kind that makes Dean’s own smile bloom in his chest and travel all the way to the corners of his eyes.

 

“Good morning, Dean,” Cas answers. Dean reaches out an arm and snags Cas’s elbow as he moves towards the fridge. He pulls him in for a kiss, quick, warm and solid. Cas rubs his forehead against Den’s chest with a soft, whimpering sound. It’s a wolf’s gesture, and Dean has to keep himself from licking Cas’s hair.

 

“Feeling better?” He asks, pressing his nose against Cas’s chin. Cas bares his neck, an instinctive gesture that allows Dean to inhale his scent. His mate nod, giving the alpha’s hand a reassuring squeeze before twisting out of the embrace.

 

Cas brings the water to a boil while Dean is happy to discover that somebody has filled their fridge with eggs, ham, milk, cheese, and bacon, everything they need for a proper breakfast. Reminding himself of his earlier promise, he decides to go all out.

 

A little after noon, Sam and Jesse drops by. They both get a little misty eyed when they meet Tom: cooing and reaching out hands to touch his cheek, to comb over his head. Dean slides his hand into Cas’s and tugs him towards the kitchen, leaving the two of them to enjoy a moment they are never going to experience for themselves.

 

It’s easy to persuade Sam and Jesse to watch Tom for a few hours, the difficulty lies in convincing Cas to leave Tom in their capable hands.

 

“We won’t be gone long,” Dean says, “but you haven’t had a proper shift in four days and you know how unhealthy that is.”

 

“I…know,” Cas says, “I’m just worried, about…about everything else.”

 

“Cas,” Dean says, tugging his mate closer, wrapping him in a hug. He lets the warmth of their Bond fold around them, solid and comforting. “We’re in our Territory, we’ve got the whole Pack looking out for us. Tom’s going to be perfectly safe, you are going to be safe.”

 

Dean pulls apart just enough so that he can lock Cas’s gaze with his. “I am not going to let anything happen to either of you, I promise” he swears.

 

“I don’t….I’m not doubting you, Dean,” Cas says. He lowers his gaze, his shoulder heavy with pain, “I’m worried about my inability to…I didn’t manage to protect them when- and I don’t even remember, what happened, I just have this wretched feeling in the pit of my chest, like this scar that isn’t ever going to heal.“

 

Dean curls over Cas, his hand sliding across his cheek, his jaw, combs into his hair, securing him in place for the kiss that follows. Cas leans into his touch, his arms circling Dean’s waist.

 

“Cas,” Dean tugs his mate close again, tucks his head under his chin so that he can hide his own expression in Cas’s hair. “It isn’t your fault and nobody is ever going to think that you are useless.”

 

“You can’t leave me alone with Tom,” Cas croaks, the imprint of Cas’s long fingers clutching hard enough to bruise.

 

“Cas, that’s-“

 

“No,” Cas’s grip tightens, making Dean stifle a wince. His fear is a wild, living thing in their Bond. “What if I have another seizure and I’m alone, what if I drop him or, you can’t leave me alone with him. Promise me, Dean.”

 

“Yeah, sure, I promise,” Dean says with a breath perilously close to a sob. He hadn’t even considered, that this was another of Cas’s worries.

 

For a moment, they stay tethered together, before they break apart. Cas scrubs at his eyes with a watery smile, “I’ll go shift,” he says, “I’ll meet you outside.”

 

Dean nods, his throat too thick for words.

 

They enjoy a few hours outside, sniffing along the borders of their home, they trek through the woods, basking in the burn and stretch of muscle and mind as they chase each other between trees and to the river. When the sun dips between the clouds and the first drops of rain prickles their fur, they head towards home. As soon as they reach the safety of their back porch, the skies break apart with a torrent of rain, so harsh it seems to come from every direction.

 

They settle down on the porch, pressed heavily together, huddled under the awing. Cas licks Dean’s face, before moving over to groom him, extracting twigs from his fur and pressing his nose under his chin. Dean nips at his ear, before settling down, head resting on his paws, watching the rain. He realizes that, in this moment, he feels content

 

 

 

Three days later, Dean finds himself back in Charlie’s apartment. It feels like it’s been another lifetime since he sat foot in Charlie’s place, even if it was just three, short, weeks ago. She’s cleared a wall in her office and hung up a massive map of the United States, one that displays all the Territories and their borders. Pins of various colors are dotting the map, clusters of green, blue, yellow and black.

 

“The black ones represent Crossroads Houses,” Charlie explains. She hands Dean a mug of coffee and takes a sip from her own before she continues her explanation.

 

“They are all close to Territories. The yellow pins represent missing shifters under the adult age, green for omega, blue for rare coats. I’ve only marked those disappearances that remain unexplained, so Wanderings are not included.”

 

There are a lot of pins.

 

“As soon as I started asking questions on the forums,” Charlie nods to her monitors, the motion agitated, angry, “information started flooding in from all over the country. I’m still collecting data, adding more pins every day.”

 

“Shit,” Dean curses, “we’ve always known that there were hunters and collectors out there, but Bobby was right when he said that this is a full-time operation.”

 

“Yeah,” Charlie frowns, “anything on this scale requires careful planning and coordination. Crowley might be the spider in this web, but there’s got to be other people attached to these strings. Maybe even other shifters,” she hides her expression behind the rim of her cup, “maybe more people like Victor.”

 

A spark of anger is lit in Dean,“bastards who sell their pack members for favors.”

 

“Exactly. Us shifters, we’re not an easy prey, it takes intimate knowledge of…the target,” Charlie studies Dean’s expression, carefully choosing her words as she navigates this treachours path, “and the Territory they live in. If Victor hadn’t told the hunter about your bond, about Cas’s usual route, she’d never have been able to sneak up on him.”

 

Dean curtails the swell of rage that crests in his chest. The hunter who took Cas had draped herself in Dean’s scent to sneak in on his mate and then doused herself in perfume to stop Dean from detecting it while he was fixing her goddamned car. He forces his eyes shut and anchors his anger in his curled fists. Nobody is ever going to take Cas away from him ever again.

 

“The more we learn about their methods, the better we can prevent them from using them against us,” he hears Charlie say. “We need to share our information between packs and…well, I don’t think the internet is the safest place to do it, but...”

 

“What about Michael Milton,” Dean asks, trying to gently steer Charlie back on course. “Have you found anything about him?”

 

“Oh,” Charlie looks almost sheepish for a moment. She takes a final sip from her cup and places it on her bookshelf, before settling behind her desk. Her fingers dance across the keys.

 

“I did a quick survey in the Shifter Registry, and there is nobody registered under that name.”

 

Dean feels his heart plummet and the velocity of it leaves him feeling breathless.

 

Charlie dares a glance at him and hurries to add, “but, there could be several reasons for that.” She turns her attention slowly back to the computer screen. “Some of the more conservative Packs refuse to submit to US consensus or Micheal Milton might not be his real name. He could have used a pseudonym during the auction.”

 

Real terror seizes control of Dean’s heart again, “if he used a fake name. How are we going to find him?”

 

Charlie ducks her head until her long hair conceals her expression. “We haven’t exhausted our options yet. Even if Milton isn’t registered, it might be a name familiar to other shifters, we could ask at the Gathering-“

 

“The next Gathering is two years away,” Dean snarls making Charlie flinch. Dean closes his eyes and counts to ten. A steadying pause, before he asks, “sorry, but- I can’t sit around for two years on the off chance that somebody might recognize the name.”

 

“I know,” Charlie says softly. She combs a hand through her hair, gathers it in a bun at the nape of her neck and secures it in place with a pencil. “As soon as I could, I put the name out on the forum, maybe somebody there knows him, or knows the name.”

 

“Alright…and if that’s a dead end?”

 

“Well, we could look into Crowley’s finances. If Samandriel remembers roughly the day of the…” Charlie pauses and cringes, “purchase, we might be able to weed something out. John and Bobby are asking their various contacts, see if they’ve ever heard of him.” She gives Dean a careful smile, “I know you hate it, Dean, but right now, all you can do is wait.”

 

Dean grumbles because he does hate waiting.

 

 

A light torrent of rain follows him home from Charlie’s apartment. Usually, Dean finds the rain cleansing and cathartic. It makes everything sharper, the smell of grass, of trees and flowers, of motor oils and tarmac. It grounds him, like a gentle reminder that this is home. Today, not even the promise of spring and summer can ground Dean from his thoughts.

 

He knows that Charlie’s trying to be optimistic, but clarity is a particular nasty gift. Every obstacle standing in the path of finding him, and finding his son is staggering. Michael Milton couldn’t have been foolish enough to use his own name in a very illegal auction. They have no idea what he looks like, how old he is, the color of his coat, which pack he might be associated with or which Territory he might be from. He might not even /be/ a shifter. He could be human, which means they might never be able to locate him. His pup might be lost to him forever.

 

By the time he gets to his front porch, his emotions are echoing through the Bond, despite his best effort to damn them in. He feels Cas’s twinge of concern. I’m fine, he wills back, everything is alright. If he can’t get himself under control, they might spill onto Tom and the last thing he wants is for Tom to experience this pain.

 

Dean rests his forehead against the damp, hard surface of the front door and fills his lungs with wet, cold, air. He folds arms over his chests, clutches his elbows and anchors the myriad of painful feelings in the painful sensation of his fingers digging into his arm.

 

He’s just about got himself under control when his wolf alerts him to a sudden, unwarned presence. Danger, his wolf snarls. Somebody is trespassing.

 

He remains slouched forward, feigning ignorance while his senses work overtime to sort through the faint senses.

 

The scent of a male, an unfamiliar alpha. It’s unusually sweet and tangy, like the scent of the deep fried pastries at a gas station. It’s artificial and unpleasant, and Dean wonders if that’s the purpose of it.

 

“You must be an idiot,” Dean says, twisting around, lips curling up to reveal his canine teeth, “to come unannounced and uninvited into another wolf’s den.”

 

The man, slightly shorter than Dean and with a thin, straight nose, looks entirely unconcerned by Dean’s warning. He stuffs his hands into the pockets of his coat and curls his lips into a wry smile.

 

“I wasn’t planning on getting caught, was I? I was just…going to have a look”

 

“You weren’t exactly subtle,” Dean lies.

 

The stranger had made it all the way into Dean’s backyard before his wolf had scented him. Even now, standing toe-to-toe, he’s having trouble picking up the guy’s scent.

 

“Scent blocker,” the man says proudly, “my own invention, almost completely fool proof.”

 

Dean grabs his shoulder and slams him up against the wall, pinning him in place with the front of his arm. The sudden movement is enough to wipe the smug grin off his face and Dean sees the first hint of real concern in his eyes.

 

“Almost,” Dean growls, nostrils flaring. The guy winces and grabs hold of the arm pinning him in place, shoving none to gently at it.

 

“Look, I was just curious,” his thin eyebrows creeps towards his hairline.

 

“Curious,” Dean repeats.

 

“Yeah,” the guy shoves at Dean’s arm again, but Dean’s not letting him go. Instead, he leans forward, using his full weight to corral the man against the wall.

 

The guy raises his palms in defeat. “Look, let me go and I’ll tell you everything you want to know, eh?”

 

“As if you’d admit if you were a hunter.”

 

The accusation strikes a nerve. The stranger bristles, his lips creasing in a vicious snarl, showing a full row of white, canine teeth. His grip returning to Dean’s arm, and this time, Dean feels his grip clawing bruises into his skin.

 

“I’m a wolf, same as you,” he growls, “I’m not working for hunter or collector scum, alright?”

 

Dean searches his face for the lie he expects to find there but sees nothing but fierce honesty in the stranger’s brown gaze.

 

“Fine,” Dean concedes.

 

He loosens his grip on the stranger, but he doesn’t let his instincts relax. The wolf is prowling close to the border of his mind, ready to strike at the first sign of danger.

 

“Thanks,” the guy says with no emotion. He makes a show of straightening his jacket and combing his brown hair back into its smooth style.

 

“I’m Gabriel,” the guy says, “Gabriel Milton and the guy who’s name you’re posting on all the forums is my brother.”

 

As soon as the words are out of his mouth,Dean has Gabriel immobilized against the wall again. The movement is so quick, it almost knocks Gabriel’s breath clear from his lungs. He coughs and splutters, scraping at the hand around his throat.

 

“Listen,” he gasps, “just let me explain!”

 

Dean lets a growl unfurl from somewhere deep and dark in his chest.

 

“Just let me explain-” he wheezes.

 

Dean’s dimly aware of the door creaking open and then the familiar scent of mate and pup fills his senses. He glances over his shoulder and sees Cas standing in the doorway, barefoot and with Tom cradled against his chest.

 

“Dean…” he says cautiously, his eyes swinging from his alpha’s to the man he’s choking.

 

“Get back inside, Castiel,” Dean says, with visible effort of keeping the command out of his voice.

 

Gabriel’s eyes widens, and Dean sees something of a revelation in his expression. He grabs hold of Dean’s arm and with great effort pries his grip loose enough to wheeze.

 

“Cassie,” he coughs, “Castiel?”

 

Cas takes a tentative step back, his arms folding protectively around Tom. The pup whimpers and burrows deeper into Cas’s arms.

 

“Go inside, Cas,” Dean repeats, sterner this time.

 

“Hey, let me,” Gabriel tries, but Dean is faster, stronger and this time he grabs hold of the guy’s right arm and twists it painfully around and up his back. Dean forces his legs between Gabriel’s, and the man stumbles forward, his knees hitting the porch hard. The guy hisses in pain and doubles over.

 

“By the bloody moon,” he curses, “let me go, you lunatic.”

 

“How do you Cas,” Dean barks, “are you working for Crowley?”

 

“Hells no,” Gabriel mutters, “Castiel’s my goddamned baby brother.”

 

 


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We´re entering the home stretch, hope you guys will stick with me through these final chapters. 
> 
> Thanks for all the comments and kudos <3

Warning: some angst.

 

**Chapter 26**

It’s a strange assembly that’s gathered at Dean’s porch.

 

Gabriel rubs his wrist where a bruise is already blossoming against his pale skin and muttering curses under his breath. Dean’s folds his arms across his chest, keeping Gabriel locked in place with his gaze.

 

Cas stands behind his alpha, tucked against the safety of the doorway, Tom pressed against his chest. The scent of his mate’s unease rolls off him in thick, cloying waves and their pup is making soft, mewling noises. It makes Dean´s wolf snarls, low and tight and full of promise.

 

“Cassie,” Gabriel sighs and takes a step forward. Dean’s outstretched hand halts his progress.

 

“Don’t,” Dean growls, “come any closer.”

 

Gabriel opens his mouth as if he’s about to protest, but a quick glance at Dean’s canine eyes makes him reconsider.

 

“Sheesh, relax-” he huffs, aiming for levity, hoping to inject some humor into the situation to dispel the tension. It’s a futile effort. Cas simply hunches closer to the door, his unease so palpable even Gabriel is noticing it. He lowers his gaze and takes a step back.

 

“You’re Cas’s brother?” Dean says dubiously. He half turns and looks at Cas.

 

Cas’s eyes are large and filled with panic, and Dean feels his uncertainty echoed through their Bond. If what Gabriel says is true, Cas doesn’t remember him. Cas doesn’t remember any of his siblings or his previous pack.

 

Dean searches his own memory for what he knows about Cas’s family. His mate had always been taciturn on the subject, quick to change the topic or dismiss it out of hand. It’s not unusual for a shifter to leave the pack, either to seek mates in other territories or avoid hostilities between too many alphas.

 

Being exiled, is not uncommon either. Sometimes it is the only solution to avoid a dangerous escalation of a tense situation. However, it is rare for a shifter to cut all ties to his family. It’s the first and most fundamental Bond and Link a shifter has, and the blood bond is thick and hard to break.

 

In addition, Cas is an omega. They are rare and considered a blessing to the pack. They bring harmony to alphas. They can conceive several litters of pups throughout their age of fertility, where betas might only be blessed with one or two pups in their lifetime. Packs usually protect them fervently.

 

It’s hard to imagine what wrong Cas committed, that would force the pack to exile him.

 

Dean’s never been much concerned about Cas’s past. Cas had left it behind for whatever reason, and Dean is content with that, happy to be part of Cas’s future. He never really cared about Cas’s nonexistent family.

 

He knows Cas has an undisclosed number of brothers in his old pack, but besides the letters Cas sent during the first year as a Bonded couple, Cas hasn’t had any contact with them. He’s never even mentioned them or shown any sign of missing them or feeling homesick.

 

“Yeah,” Gabriel shakes a laugh and the sound of it drags Dean out of his musings.

 

“Man, I haven’t seen you since you were this high.” Gabriel demonstrates by holding his hand just below his waist. “You were….five, six years old when I left. Still in the between stages of controlling your shift. You were hilarious. You’d sneeze and have wolf’s ears.” His smiles falter in when he takes in Cas’s blank stare.

 

Cas hunches his shoulder, shifting Tom’s weight on his arms and looking helplessly at Gabriel.

 

“You really don’t remember me?” Gabriel asks. He tugs his arm free from Dean’s grip, but this time, he wisely doesn’t make any movement to cross the distance between them.

 

“I….no….?” Cas says, his words ending in a question directed at Dean.

 

Dean opens his mouth. Closes it. A memory fights to be recognized. A long corridor and an endless row of doors of different shapes and sizes. He remembers walking down that corridor, trying the doors and finding many of them locked until one opened. Dean remembers the strange gallery he’d seen in Cas’s mind. Pictures of himself faded images of their house and their pack.

 

The empty frames.

The faded names.

Michael. Balthazar. Raphael.Gabriel.

 

“I….remember you, Gabriel,” Dean says. He turns to Cas and places a warm hand on his shoulder, startling Cas out of whatever thoughts he was lost in.

 

“He’s my brother?” Cas asks. Dean doesn’t quite know how to explain the strange trip he took in…Cas’s mind, so he settles for a simple nod. “You mentioned him once,” he lies, “that you had a brother named Gabriel who left when you were just a kid.”

 

“Yeah, I…” Gabriel scratches his chin, his shoulders sagging.

 

“Oh.” Cas frowns and peers over Dean’s shoulder at Gabriel.

 

He doesn’t really look anything like Cas, Dean thinks. Different coloring, they don’t have the same eyes and Cas is slightly taller than Gabriel. But, there is some familiarity at the corner of their mouth, the slope of their shoulders.

 

Gabriel looks worn. Hair plastered to his forehead, his boots caked with mud, the hem of his pants frayed and torn. He’s been traveling on foot for quite a while. It makes Dean wonder where Gabriel was when he heard of the Winchester’s search for Michael. Could he really just happen to be living nearby? How had he made his way all the way to Dean’s front porch without anybody noticing?

 

“Look, could we go inside and talk?” Gabriel pleads. “I’m tired and cold, and wouldn’t turn down something to drink. I promise I’ll tell you everything, alright?”

 

Dean looks over to his mate. Cas rocks Tom with the same, restless movements Dean used when he tries to calm himself. Their eyes meet, and then Cas nods.

 

“I’ll put Tom down for a nap,” he murmurs, before disappearing inside. Dean watches him leave and then bars the doorway when Gabriel tries to follow.

 

“I’m inviting you inside,” Dean says, his voice, low and tight, “but I’m not inviting you into my home, you get me?”

 

“I get you,” Gabriel says and clasps his hands at the small of his back. There are codes and traditions governing guests and Dean’s not ready to trust Gabriel with them just yet. He’s got an anxious mate with denning instincts and a pup to think about.

 

Once inside, Gabriel politely trudges off his boots and fastens his coat on a hook in the corridor. He scents the air, his nose wrinkling a little as he sorts through the various scents of an unfamiliar household.

 

“Take a seat,” Dean gestures to the kitchen table.

 

“Thanks,” Gabriel says, slipping into the corner chair against the wall. It’s a subtle, dismissive gesture that doesn’t go unnoticed.

 

“Want some water?”

 

“That’d be great.”

 

Dean finds three glasses and places them on the table before filling a pitcher with cold, crisp water from the fridge. He fills Gabriel’s glass and the shifter accepts it with a grateful nod. Gabriel empties the glass in one, long, sip and wipes his the back of his hand across his mouth before holding the glass out for Dean, asking for more.

 

“Thanks,” he gasps, having drained half of his second glass. “I’ve been walking since this morning.”

 

“Where do you live?”

 

“I don’t really live anywhere,” Gabriel answers, “I travel a lot, a few months here, a few months there. Mom used to say I’ve got restlessness in my bones.”

 

“Must be hard,” Dean observes, “traveling as a shifter isn’t easy.”

 

Gabriel looks suddenly sheepish and it’s a dangerous look on him. “I’ve got my ways.”

 

“You’re lucky not to have been caught.”

 

“I’m smart,” Gabriel says. “There’s a growing community on the internet. Shifters are sharing their experience, rating towns by their friendliness and so on. It’s not like I lack for money and-“

 

Gabriel’s words peter off and Dean turns to see what’s caught his attention. Cas has returned. He has put on socks and a hoodie that makes him look younger and more vulnerable, even if Dean knows Cas was hoping for the opposite effect.

 

Gabriel scrubs a hand over the back of his neck and blinks at Cas as if he can’t really believe what he’s seeing. Dean takes a seat in front of him, blocking his view while Cas remains standing, his flight response too ingrained to allow himself to relax.

 

“Talk,” Dean says.

 

“This is a long story,” Gabriel hedges.

 

“Then start at the beginning,” Cas says. He moves to stand behind Dean, one hand clutching the back of his chair while fingertips brush the hair at the nape of Dean´s neck.

 

“My pack….our pack,” Gabriel says with an odd look to Cas, “is run by our older brother, Michael Milton.”

 

Dean feels Cas go rigid behind him, his fingers digging into the chair so hard the wood creaks in protests.

 

“We’re not close, Michael and I. Never have been,” Gabriel says. “Michael likes to stay home with his pack, his family, the properties, the business and…. well, I like to explore what the rest of the world, see what it has to offer. To be honest, it’s been like…three years since I saw him last, a local Gathering.”

 

Dean’s eyes automatically seek Gabriel’s neck, but the only thing around it as the thin pendant on a leather strap. Following his gaze, Gabriel tugs absentmindedly on his necklace, “I know it’s not really a collar per-say, both I prefer towns that are laxer on enforcing such archaic rules. Anyways, I like to keep in touch with the pack and community and all that….just, see what’s going on.” He makes a vague gesture that Dean isn’t sure how to interpret.

 

“We’re pack animals after all,” Gabriel says wryly, “so I check in on the forums from time to time. I love modern technology, honestly, I don’t get why shifters shy away from it, there’s oodles of….” Dean’s sharp glare keeps him from straying off on this particular tangent.

 

Gabriel clears his throat and continues, “so when I see that there’s a call out for information on Michael Milton, I’m curious as to why anybody would want to locate him.”

 

“How’d you find us?” Dean asks. Charlie had ensured him that it wouldn’t be easy to track them down, just in case.

 

Gabriel leans back in his chair, lacing his fingers together behind his head, oddly relaxed in the home of the man who, minutes ago, had him pinned down.

 

“I’ll spare you the boring details, but it is possible for a man of my talents to trace the geographical location of a computer. When I saw that it was in the Winchester territory, I thought I’d check out the house of the Winchesters themselves.”

 

It’s not a logic Dean can argue against. He would have pretty much done exactly the same thing if he’d been in Gabriel’s situation.

 

“If you’re not close with Michael, why do you care why shifters are looking for him?”

 

“He’s still my brother,” Gabriel says, “he’s still family.”

 

A terse silence settles over the kitchen. Dean tries to sort through Gabriel’s words and his intentions. While he spoke blandly about his distance to Michael, his voice is warm when he says that he cares for his family. How will he react if Dean tells him the truth about Michael? Cas is also, after all, Gabriel’s brother, even if it’s been twenty years since he’s seen him.

 

However, if they sway Gabriel to their side, he can tell them where Michael is.

 

He could lead them to their pup.

 

“So,” Gabriel says, shifting idly in the growing silence. He draws doodles in the condensation on his glass of water. “Why are you looking for Michael?”

 

Dean is halfway through the formulating of a vague response when Cas says flatly.

 

“He’s got our pup.”

 

“What?” Gabriel’s cocky, confident, attitude melts like dew in the sunlight. His arms fall heavily to the side, his posture stiff and alert.

 

Dean feels Cas’s fingers, flexing and unflexing against his shoulder, and turns around until he can see his fixed, white, face. He reaches for Cas’s hand, using their Bond to moore him in place. He pulls out the chair next to him and gently tugs Cas down. The omega goes willingly, crumbling into the chair.

 

Dean pushes his untouched glass of water towards him, gratified when Cas empties it.

 

Gabriel is still staring at them.

 

“About six months ago,” Dean says, “Michael Milton bought our son, Tom’s twin brother, through an auction run by a Collector named Crowley.”

 

Judging by the naked horror in Gabriel’s face, Dean’s fairly certain that he’s just recruited an ally to their cause.

 

Then, suddenly, Gabriel’s brows knits in thought, his expression settling in thoughtful folds.

 

“Michael would never associate with Collectors,” he says stiffly, “our mother was killed by Collectors when Castiel and Anna were just two years old.” He says this Cas, who ducks aside to keep a straight face. He covers Cas’s hand with his own, a firm and warm, tight enough that Cas knows that he’s not alone.

 

“We’ve got a witness to the transaction,” Dean says.

 

“I’m certain Michael would have a good reason to- maybe he bought him to save him from being purchased by Collectors?”

 

It’s a possibility that Dean hasn’t considered. He’d naturally assumed that anyone involved in the purchase of shifters, an auction involving a pup, would only do so for nefarious reasons. Sam and Charlie had educated him thoroughly on the desirability on shifter pups.

 

That Michael might have acted out of kindness and a desire save the pup from a terrible fate does something to levitate the dread in Dean’s stomach. At least his son isn’t…isn’t kept in some cage or pen like an animal, or parade around on display for people to coo and leer at.

 

But, once Michael had saved the pup, why hadn’t he done everything he could to try and locate his family? A pup is a precious thing to a pack. They are adored and guarded by all members. He must have known that there were desperate family members out there, looking for their missing child.

 

“He’s still our son,” Dean says, tightening his grip on Cas’s hand, “and we want him back.”

 

“Oh, yeah,” Gabriel splutters, “sure, I mean, of course."

 

Dean’s next question is interrupted by a sudden, sharp cry from Tom. Cas rises so quickly his chair topples over, making Tom cry even harder.

 

“I’ll go-“ Dean offers, already standing up, but Cas shakes his head.

 

“No, I’ll get him.”

 

Dean watches his mate cross the kitchen floor with quick, hurried steps that belie his calm words. He recognizes Cas’s need to escape. He lets his mate go without further protest. Dean picks up Cas’s chair, avoiding Gabriel’s questioning glances. Either Gabriel is surprisingly perceptive of his little brother’s mood and tensions, even if he hasn’t seen him for twenty years, or he’s got an unusually keen nose.

 

It must be twice as hard on Cas, Dean knows, to not only have to deal with the information that their pup is in his brother’s hands, but also having to deal with all this new information about his family, while fighting his denning instincts, which are probably telling him to kick Gabriel out of their home. He might be family, but to Cas, he’s still a stranger.

 

That’s why he’s surprised when Cas returns a few minutes later, carrying a red-faced and sniffling Tom on his arm. Tom’s got his fist firmly in Cas’s shirt and he peers at Gabriel with thinly veiled suspicion.

 

Gabriel’s eyes goes almost comically wide at the sight of his…nephew.

 

“He’s hungry,” Cas interprets.

“I’ll make him a bottle,” Dean says, because even if Cas is Tom’s go-to for comfort, (and translation of his cries,) Dean’s the one who prepares his bottles.

 

He moves automatically through the motions: finding the new bottles they bought and sanitized yesterday, fetching the formula from the cupboard and heating water. For such a small guy, Tom has a lot of possessions, which have filled up their cupboards and drawers. Every time Dean sees a tiny sock or the baby spoons, it feels like his chest is about to explode with the effort of containing the storm of feelings they elicit. It wasn’t only a reminder of all the things he’d gained, but also what was still missing because there should be two of everything.

 

Dean feels three sets of eyes on him as he moves, Tom hungry and hopeful, Cas’s silent and fond, and Gabriel’s awkward flickers.

 

“Here you go, buddy.”

 

As soon as Dean offers Tom his bottle and the pup reaches out with grabby paws, whining and jiggling in Cas’s arm until he’s able to secure his tiny hands around the flask. Tom’s eyes drift shut in contentment and Dean grins at the sight.

 

“Man, he’s got some appetite,” Gabriel observes. “He’s didn’t get that from the Milton side of the family, we’re prickly eaters.”

 

The statement is casual enough, but Cas goes unnaturally still and he shies behind Dean’s back.

 

“Will you take us to Michael Milton?” Dean asks. He brushes his hand softly along Cas’s spine and lets it rest at the small of his back.

 

“Sure,” Gabriel says, reclining easily in his chair. “We could just phone him and explain the situation-“

 

“No,” Cas says, his voice harsh and brittle. Tom startles in his arm and glances up at his parent with large, worried eyes. “No,” Cas repeats, softer this time and guides the bottle back to Tom’s hungry mouth. “I don’t want to give him the opportunity to…to do something.”

 

Cas’s worries echo his own. Gabriel seems to think that Michael might have bought Tom to save him, but Gabriel hasn’t seen his brother in two years. A lot can happen in two years. Michael might have developed a protective streak, he might decide to keep the pup for himself. Even with a poor case, he might decide to claim the right to challenge them for parenthood. It’s a rare challenge, but it’s part of the Old Rites. That would mean they’d have to wait years for the next Gathering.

 

“We’re not taking any chances,” Dean says, “it’s better if Michael isn’t forewarned.”

 

“Alright,” Gabriel says, though he sounds dubious. “If you think that’s the best course, then I’m not going to argue.” He regards the two of them, his eyes catching Cas’s. “I promise,” he slides a hand across the table and grasps Cas’s free hand in a firm grip. “I’m on your side.”

 

“Thank you,” Cas says, his relief vibrating through their Bond.

 

A heavy silence settles over the kitchen, only broken by the sound of Tom suckling the bottle.

 

“Is there a chance of getting anything to eat,” Gabriel sighs. “If not, totally cool, but I’m going to head out to that bar I saw down the road and grab some grub.”

 

“We were planning on having lasagne…”

Dean says with a quick glance at Cas. He doesn’t really trust Gabriel, not yet, but he doesn’t want to antagonize the guy because he is their connection to Michael. However, Dean doesn’t want to invite Gabriel to dine at their table, giving him all of a guests' rights, without Cas’s approval.

 

“You should join us,” says Cas firmly, “and then you can crash on the sofa if you want, and then tomorrow you can meet the rest of the pack.”

 

Gabriel dredges up a cautious smile as if this is more than he could have hoped for. Inviting him to spend the night in the same den as their pup is a generous gesture of trust.

 

“It’s cool, I got my stuff stashed down at the motel,” he says, “if you’ll allow me, I’m pretty mean with a spatula.”

 

Dean arches a brow at that declaration, but then gestures Gabriel to the fridge, “knock yourself out.”

 

 

A little over an hour later, they are once again gathered around the table. Cas and Dean put Tom to bed, accompanied by the increasingly enticing aroma of fresh tomatoes, cheese, herbs, and spices. Apparently, the previous owner had been a keen chef and had cultivated a large kitchen garden along the porch, with herbs and fresh vegetables that had made Gabriel rub his palms together in glee.

 

Gabriel was modest when he claimed some proficiency in the kitchen. Dean is pretty sure that even the fanciest white, tablecloth restaurants wouldn’t have able to serve up anything half as spectacular as what Gabriel conjured in their kitchen.

 

“I’m addicted to cooking television,” Gabriel says as he spoons a heap of melted cheese and pasta onto Dean’s plate. “When you live in motel’s as often as I do, you come to appreciate the opportunity to cook.”

 

“You’re welcome to my kitchen anytime,” Dean mumbles through a mouthful of deliciousness. Even Cas, who’s been picking at his food ever since he was rescued, polishes off his plate and asks for seconds. The conversation is stilted, but not unpleasant. Gabriel offers up the list of ingredients and suggestions to what they could do with the herb garden.

 

Cas reminds silent through most of the conversation, but Dean feels all the questions burning within him. Gabriel could tell Cas about his former pack, about their brothers, their father, and mother.

 

He might even know why Cas was exiled.

 

Dean feels something unpleasant roll in his belly and he doesn’t know if it’s just the result of eating too much too quickly or if it’s guilt. Cas doesn’t remember being exiled, he doesn’t know that his pack turned their backs on him. He doesn’t know how he’d feel if he just found his family, only to discover that they want nothing to do with him. He feels Cas’s gentle probing through the Bond and catches his questioning glance. He forces a smile and shakes his head. It’s a bridge they’ll have to cross later.

 

After the leftovers have been put away in the fridge and the dishes cleaned, Gabriel clears his throat and stuffs his hands into his pockets.

 

“So, I’d better head on out, I guess I’ll see you guys tomorrow and we’ll figure out the best way to get to Michael’s. I assume you’ll want to leave as soon as possible.”

 

“Yes,” Dean says. He wipes his hands on the dish towel and hangs it over handle bar on the oven.

 

“It’s a fairly long drive,” Gabriel says, “we’ll probably need to make a stop or two along the way.”

 

Dean shrugs. “We’ll figure out the details tomorrow.” He’s hardly a stranger to long car rides and nothing is going to stop him from getting his pup back.

 

“Right, right,” Gabriel nods. He lingers for a moment, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, his gaze darting from Dean to Cas as if he’s wondering who to address his question to.

 

Gabriel’s jittery nerves is putting his wolf on edge, and so Dean says, more harshly then he intended. “Just spit it out!”

 

“I was wondering if I could see the pup, Tom was it? Before I left, I mean-“ Gabriel’s shoulders hunches to his ears, “he’s family.”

 

“Sure,” Cas says, “he’s sleeping, so try not to wake him.”

 

“Of course,” Gabriel grins with palpable relief.

 

Cas leads them through the house towards the makeshift nursery they’ve been working on. They’ve stored all the furniture from the guest room in the garage and carried in Tom’s cot, a small wardrobe and an old, well loved, rocking chair that John had brought them. It had once stood in Sam and Dean’s nursery and it was the only memento of Mary that John had kept.

 

Dean remains standing in the doorway, his instincts on alert. Just in case. Gabriel pads silently across the floor and peers into the cot. Even in the dim light of the nursery, Dean sees the way Gabriel’s eyes goes soft and a little watery.

 

“He looks just like you,” Gabriel whispers to Cas. Carefully, Gabriel reaches down and runs the tip of his finger along Tom’s cheek. “He’s pretty cute,” Gabriel adds.

 

They slowly retreat out of the nursery, carefully closing the door behind them until only a sliver of light creeps into the room.

 

“I meant to ask you,” Gabriel says as he shrugs on his jacket. “What happened to Anna?”

 

Cas’s demeanor goes instantly rigid, his hands balling into fists at his side.

 

“She died,” he says, swallowing hard, “last winter. Pneumonia.”

 

“Oh,” Gabriel’s eyes falls to the floor, pain and grief in the hunched set of his of his shoulders. “Michael said you left together, so I thought….”

 

“She was part of our pack,” Dean says. He circles his arm around Cas’s waist, letting his mate curl against him. “She’s buried in the Territory, we’ll show you tomorrow.”

 

“Alright, that’ll be…yeah,” Gabriel shakes his head a little and then looks back up at the pair before him.

 

“It’s really great to see you again, little brother,” he gives Cas’s shoulder a half-hearted nudge, “I’m glad to see that you’re well settled, and…yeah.”

 

The rest of the sentence hangs in the air. There’s simply too much for it to encompass in a single statement.

 

They bid farewell to Gabriel and Dean watches him trudge down the road, his hands in the pocket of his coat, his pace slow and determined. For the first time in years, Dean feels hopeful that things might actually work out. That they’ll get through it, all of them.

 

When Gabriel disappears around a corner, Dean sheds clothes and allows himself to slip into the wolf’s skin and mind. He prowls the perimeter, sorting through Gabriel’s unfamiliar, almost non-existent scent along with the perfume of a late, spring, evening. Once his wolf is convinced that the den, his mate, and pup are safe, Dean returns and shimmies into his jeans and shirt. He checks all the locks on the doors and windows and looks in on Tom, who is still sound asleep in his cot.

 

He goes to the bathroom, brushes his teeth and washes his face, before pulling on his soft sleep pants and a t-shirt.

 

Cas is already curled up on the covers, but the omega’s firm grip on the duvet tells Dean that he’s not asleep. For a moment, Dean keeps himself to his side of the bed, trying to sort through the myriad of feelings that’s bleeding through their Bond. Relief at finding Michael, anxiousness at learning that Michael is his brother. Gabriel’s easy-going manner, and the hope his promise has kindled. The reminder of Anna’s death.

 

Dean sneaks a hand across the mattress and gently touches Cas’s shoulder. His skin is cold and the muscles in his arm jump under Dean’s touch.

 

“Any thoughts you want to share?” Dean asks.

 

Cas shifts into Dean’s embrace, his eyes downcast and heavy.

 

“I can’t go with you to Micheal’s territory.”

 

“What?” Dean blinks, because he hadn’t even considered that Cas wouldn’t come with him. “Why not?”

 

“Dean,” Cas sighs, “I can’t leave Tom. I know he’ll be safe here and that Sam and Jess would take care of him, but…I just can’t.” He swallows heavily. “I don’t want to drag him across the country to Michael’s pack. Besides, we’d just slow you down, and there’s a chance that-“

 

Dean closes his eyes for a moment, “we don’t have to rush, we can take as much time as we need.”

 

“I know,” Cas says quietly, “but I don’t think I could do it, I mean, go back there and not know…and not know them, not being able to answer all their questions and there’s a part of me that tells me I won’t receive a warm welcome and I don’t want to give Michael any reason not to give him back.”

 

The alpha has a response ready, but the words die as soon as he feels the anguish leeching through their Bond. His mate is frightened, frightened of what Michael is going to do, of how far he knows, /wants/ Dean to go to get their pup back. He’s afraid of the past that’s been erased from his memories.

 

“Alright, if you don’t want to-then you should stay here with Tom.” Dean struggles through every consonant. He pulls Cas closer, tucking him against his chest and feels the wild gallop of Cas’s heart against his ribs.

 

“I’ll bring dad along,” Dean says, “it’s going to be okay, Cas. We’ll bring him home.”

 

“I believe you,” Cas murmurs against his chest.

 

Dan lies still and watches the light slide across the ceiling. He feels his mate’s slow breathing against his skin, feels the collar of his shirt becoming damp.

 

 

 

 


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I honestly didn´t intend to leave you guys hanging, but the end of school is a bit of nasty, for students and teachers.
> 
> Anyways, thanks for all the kudos and supports, it´s what I live on!

Warning: some minor talk about past abuse.

 

**Chapter twenty-seven.**

 

  
A week after coming home from Shurley’s territory, Dean is once again up before dawn has had time to settle. However, this time, he’s the one loading bags into the backseat of the car, while Bobby and Charlie watch him, yawning into their cups of coffee.

“You got a drive ahead of you,” Bobby says, “you can’t make it on just coffee and fumes.”

“I know,” Dean jams his bag next to Gabriel’s neon-green sports bag, “we’re gonna stop after we cross Wyoming. Dad knows of a shifter-friendly motel that we’ll be staying at.”

“John’s driving Gabriel’s car?” Bobby eyes the vehicle in question with skepticism. It’s a gleaming, red, Ford Mustang convertible, a flashy, muscle car that Dean’s pretty sure that, under normal circumstances, his dad wouldn’t be caught dead in.

“Gabriel seems to like bright colors,” Charlie quips, “not the one for subtlety, is he?”

Dean can only shrug. He’s known Gabriel for less than twelve hours and the only thing he can say about him for certain is that he makes a mean lasagna. He’s not sure how he’s going to survive all this time with him on the road. Being cooped up in a car for hours at a time is bad enough, but to do so in close proximity to an alpha he doesn’t really know is going to test his patience to the limit.

“Alright, so I got you guys a pair of walkie-talkies,” Charlie explains, “and a satellite phone, just in case. I don’t know how good cell phone coverage is going to be.”

She spends five minutes talking Dean through the buttons on the phone and explaining how he needs to place it in the sun to let the battery charge. “It’s just for emergencies,” Charlie repeats, “it cost me an arm and a leg, so be careful with it.”

Dean studies the solid, brick-shaped phone. He carefully ignores the small, branded lettering of “Property of US army,” that somebody has tried to scratch away with a knife.

“Thanks, Charlie.” He places the phone into the glove box and turns back to find his arms full of Charlie as she wraps him up in a fierce hug.

“You bring back your pup, alright?” She mutters wetly into his shoulder, before giving his back a friendly pat.

“Yeah,” Dean says, oddly touched by Charlie’s show of sentimentality. Usually, she’s the one he can count on to be bright and cheerful, no matter the circumstances. Bobby just touches the brim of his cap in an aborted salute, “don’t be an idjit” he says, before walking over to exchange words with John.

Dean shakes his head and climbs the steps to his porch. In the kitchen, he finds Gabriel half-asleep into a bowl of cereal, his shirt on backward.

“Here’s some coffee,” Cas says, placing a steaming travel mug front of his brother. Gabriel mumbles something that is probably meant to be gratitude before he wraps his hands around the mug and pulls it across the table.

“You about ready?” Dean asks Gabriel and gently nudges the chair he’s sitting on, mindful of the hot beverage in the alpha’s hands.

“Yeah, yeah,” Gabriel grumbles. With great dramatics he heaves himself out of the chair, snapping the lid onto the mug. For a moment he stands in the middle of the kitchen, glazed eyes sliding from Dean to Cas. Dean narrows his eyes, wondering how long it’s going to take for Gabriel to realize that he’s-

“-Don’t mind me,” he yawns, “have your moment.” He takes a sip of his coffee, eyes never leaving Dean.

Cas’s lips twist into a little half smile. He crosses the distance between them and slides his arms around Dean’s waist pulling him close. Dean’s nose immediately seeks through the soft strand of his mate’s hair, nuzzling his ear and inhaling his scent. Their Bond hums with happiness and Dean tries to soak up as much of the sensation as possible, wishing he had his own travel mug he could fill it with.

“I’ll call as soon as we reach the motel, alright?”

“Alright,” Cas mumbles against his shirt. He pulls away a little and Dean places a kiss on his forehead. The Bond preens at the attention and Dean reins in the wolf’s desire to lick across Cas’s face. He doesn’t want to spend the next few hours mercilessly teased by Gabriel.

“I’ll go say goodbye to Tom,” Dean says, forcing himself to pull away. “Is he still asleep?”

Cas nods.

Dean moves quietly through the house towards the improvised nurse they set up in the old guest room. The room is dark and airy, smelling of baby formula, his mate, and his pup. He peers into the crib and sees his son asleep on his back, both hands folded into fists, one hand resting by his head, Cas’s puzzled frown on his face.

“Hey, buddy,” Dean whispers. He carefully runs the tip of a finger across the pup’s nose, watching it wrinkle a little before relaxing again.

“I’m not sure if you know it or not,” he says softly, “but you’ve got a brother and I’m going to fetch him home.”

Tom smacks his lips in sleep.

“So, yeah, I’ll see you again real soon.” He carefully caresses the lick of dark hair across Tom’s head. Tom’s eyes open a sliver and Dean hold this breath, waiting for the inevitable crying. But Tom remains silent, staring up at him with Cas’s blue eyes. Dean knows he’ll never tire of watching him sleep, that he could spend all day here, that the only thing making him leave Tom and Cas behind is the knowledge that their family isn’t complete yet.

  
The knowledge sits heavy in his chest as he reverses out of the driver way. Gabriel is already fast asleep next to him, his head resting awkwardly against the window. He watches Cas and Charlie on his porch, their tiny wave as he disappears down the street, the lights of his home fading in the rearview mirror.

  
Gabriel stirs hours later, when they’ve put civilization behind them and the only thing ahead of them is miles and miles of open road. Gabriel yawns and takes a sip of his coffee, grimacing at the taste.

“Sheesh, where are we?”

“About four hours out,” Dean replies. He reaches out and turns on the cassette player, feeling himself relax at the familiar tunes drifting through the car.

Gabriel remains silent, staring out of the window, his hands resting in his lap. Dean catches his expression in the reflection of the window, but his demeanor is difficult to read. He’d been all grins and smiles last evening, but now he looks pensive. Apprehensive.

Dean tightens his grip on the steering wheel, wondering if should try to engage Gabriel in conversation, or if it is better to ignore whatever Gabriel is brooding on. In the end, Gabriel leaves him no choice.

“There’s something you should know about Michael’s Territory,” Gabriel says, but his head is turned and he seems to be addressing the scenery and not Dean.

“What’s that?”

“Well,” Gabriel hedges. He folds his hands in his lap. Unfolds them and fiddles with his seatbelt. “It’s a long story,” he says as if he suddenly regrets speaking.

Dean rolls his eyes, “we got hours yet until the first stop.”

“Right.” He sees Gabriel taking a deep breath, bracing himself for what he’s about to say. “Well, there’s Lucifer, he’s our brother, younger than Michael by three years. When our father died, Michael and Lucifer fought over who’d take over as Alpha.”

“Your father hadn’t appointed a successor?” Dean asks. It’s not uncommon for Packs to settle leaderships with duels or fights, but it’s a tradition that has waned in lieu of hereditary hierarchy. A duel will determine the fittest, fastest most ferocious Alpha, but not necessarily the one most suited to leadership. Duels are bloody affairs that usually ends with the losing shifters being exiled. Family bonds are broken and sometimes it can split a pack in two. There have been countless Territory skirmishes and infighting over leadership.

“Lucifer…he had all these….new ideas, and well, a lot of pack members found them appealing,” Gabriel sighs.

“What sort of ideas?”

“Lucifer believed that modern technology isn’t just for humans, and that, unless we shifters start to embrace them, we’ll become vulnerable. He thinks that we need to adapt and become familiar with computers and wireless technology and guns and…all that crap. He still carries a lot of resentment for how humans have treated shifters in the past. He doesn’t trust the truce, he doesn’t believe that humans and shifters can coexist, he wants shifters to be prepared.”

Dean doesn’t really want to know what Lucifer wants to prepare for. Shifters are already a minority, they can hardly afford a war with humanity. But, Lucifer's view isn’t all that uncommon. There are plenty of shifters that won’t permit old grievances to be forgiven or forgotten. There are packs so conservative they won’t allow humans into their territory and packs that won’t even allow their pack members to use electricity. There are packs that don't register with the human authorities. There are packs that spend their entire lives hidden in territories deep in the wilderness and never have contact with the outside world. Some of them don’t even send representatives to the Gatherings.

Most packs live like the Winchesters and have integrated seamlessly along a human community. Ash and Jo work in a human bar, most of Bobby’s customers at the auto repair shops are humans. They don’t mind each other and usually get along. They may not like wireless technology, but Dean is starting to see the benefits of computers and mobile phones. He’d never have found Cas without Charlie’s internet. He’s pretty that computers will be commonplace in territories within a few years.

“It was a pretty vicious fight, but Michael won,” Gabriel says, dragging Dean out of his musings. “First, Michael wanted Lucifer to remain in the territory, he’s family after all. Offered him to forget about the fight, to give Lucifer one of the properties. I mean, things were tense and the two of them could never stand to be in the same room together. After months of bickering and fights, there was a schism in the pack and a lot of shifters left to follow Lucifer, who went and carved out his own territory within Michael’s borders.”

“And Michael let him?”

Gabriel shrugs a little, “the territory is hundreds of thousands of acres, there’s plenty of room for two packs to live side by side. The alternative was that Michael lets the conflict drag out for years until they were forced to settle it in a permanent fight. Besides, Lucifer is our brother, I think Michael preferred to have him close by.”

So that he can keep an eye on him, Dean thinks. It’s what he would have done.

“Anyways, despite how modern and forward thinking Lucifer claimed to be,” Gabriel grimaces, “he still had some very old thoughts about pack politics and social hierarchy. Like, archaic Old Ways stuff.” Gabriel lists them off on his fingers, his expression growing grimmer and grimmer. “Only the Alpha had the right to reproduce. The best blood line and all that crap. Lucifer maintained this position through aggression. He’d be the first to eat. He had a bunch of beta males catering to his every whim, fighting each others for scraps of favor, hoping to inherit his privilege. The omegas were at the bottom of the hierarchy. Last to eat, if there was anything left and only if Lucifer allowed it. The other pack members would bully them, because, that’s a good way for the pack to vent off conflicts and show Lucifer their brawls.”

Dean swallows down a lump of bile that’s been slowly climbing its way up his throat. “Does this have anything to do with why Cas was exiled?” Dean asks, already dreading the answer.

He doesn’t really care about the reasons, but he is curious about them. Curious enough to ignore the small voice that’s chiding him for going behind his mate’s back. If Cas had wanted Dean to know the reason, he would have told him. But he had never offered to tell him and Dean loved him too much to ask.

“Well,” Gabriel combs a hand through his hair, “I wasn’t there when it happened, so I don’t know all the details. Michael can probably tell you more about it.”

Dean steals a glance at Gabriel, assessing his mood. The alpha sits slouched in the chair, fingers still fiddling with his seatbelt. It’s hard to reconcile this docile man with the energetic person who had taken complete control over Dean’s kitchen.

“But you know some of it,” Dean presses.

“Didn’t Cassie ever tell you?”

Dean’s hand clenches reflexively around the steering wheel.

“It never mattered to me,” Dean says, “and now Cas can’t remember.”

Dean watches as Gabriel digest these words. He can see him going through the pros and cons, a skirmish between his loyalty to his little brother, and to his little brother’s alpha mate.

“All I know,” Gabriel sighs, “is that Michael gave Cassie and Anna enough supplies to get out of the Territory and make it to the Gathering. He told me he’d marked the route for them.”

“I though Cas had been banished,” Dean says, a quick glance at Gabriel before he fixes his gaze back on the road, “not that he left of his own free will.”

“He wasn’t really allowed to leave,” Gabriel says, his voice suddenly low and tight. “He was part of Lucifer’s pack, he would be far too valuable to be allowed to leave.”

Dean schools his expression before Gabriel has a chance to read the terror in his eyes. Hundreds of dreadful scenarios present themselves in Dean’s imagination. Cas sitting patiently at the end of the table, waiting for the others to finish eating, wondering if he’ll be allowed to eat. Shifters chasing him through the Territory for sports.

“Cas is your brother, why would you let-“ his question is cut short by Gabriel’s vicious glare. It makes the car sheer dangerously close to the edge of the road.

“Look,” Gabriel sighs, “you´ll have you to get your answers from Michael. Michael got him out of there as soon as he could, right? Michael’s pack, they are mostly….there’s a lot of young and old shifters. Lucifer has lured all sorts of vicious and nasty wolves to him, and whatever conflicting ideas they might have, all Shifters must respect the Old Ways.”

As much as he hates it, Dean knows that Gabriel’s right.The Old Ways were embedded into the very core of their culture, and whatever else might change, whatever trend of philosophy packs might embrace, they would always be wolves and always be faithful to Name of the Moon.

 

By the time they reach their stop for the night, the sky is a spill of watercolors. Dean sees Gabriel’s car parked under a spindly tree at the far end of the parking lot and spots his dad sitting on the steps of his motel room, a beer in his hand. He gives Dean a tiny salute with his bottle, before pushing himself to his feet and moving towards them.

  
Gabriel half falls, half stumbles out of the car, placing a hand the small of his back and groans dramatically, “I can’t wait to get out of my clothes and out of my skin.” Dean suppressed a groan of his own, Gabriel’s thoughts echoing his own. His skin feels itchy and muggy, his wolf a coiled spring of energy wanting nothing more than to explode. He’s spent too much time cooped up in moving, mechanized vehicles and far too little on his paws and in his fur.

“We need to check in first,” Dean says. He grabs his bag from the boot of the car and, as Gabriel is still bemoaning the state of his back, grabs the neon green monstrosity as well.

The motel is a shifter-friendly pit stop with fifteen small rooms spread along its E-shaped structure. Most of the property is taken up by a massive garden that’s been tended by Mother Nature’s whims and fancy. Tall, yellow grass, shrubbery and field flowers grow in haphazard spread towards the thick, bushy eyebrows of the forest and the rolling hills beyond.

“Nothing but wilderness for the next couple of miles,” John says. He offers Dean a bottle, and Dean presses the cool, moist glass against his forehead. It does little to sate the itch under his skin, but the immediate urge cools under the cold pressure.

“I desperately need to stretch my limbs,” Gabriel says, “I’m going to go and get us a room.” Before Dean has time to formulate a response, Gabriel is jogging across the parking lot and towards the soft light of the reception.

“Have you been here before?” Dean asks and makes a vague gesture towards the forest.

“A couple of times,” John answers. He takes a long sip of his drink and wipes his mouth with the back of his mouth. “Before I took over control of the Pack I used to drift a bit. Your grandfather used to say I had restlessness in my bones. Of course, that all changed after I met your mom.” John nods a little towards the reception, “she worked here, during the summers. It’s where we met.”

It’s the most information John has ever shared about his past before, and it takes Dean to a moment appreciate this insight into his parent´s past. He turns to look at the main entrance and tries to picture his mom working here, writing down the names of shifters passing by, tidying the rooms, sweeping the parking lot. Had she liked worked here, meeting strangers and watching them leave? Has she been excited to leave it all behind and move across the county to the Winchester Territory?

It’s a lot of material to work through and he’s still processing it when Gabriel returns and dangles the keys in front o this face.

“Come on, I need fur time.”

Dean snatches the key out of Gabriel’s grip and makes his way across the lot towards room number eight. Gabriel is a bundle of pent of energy, almost vibrating across the carpark. It's making Dean’s own wolf perk up again, wagging its tail and bounding along the edges of his mind. Let’s play, let’s play. He hasn’t even put the key into the lock before Gabriel is shrugging out of his jacket and kicking off his shoes.

“Do you mind?” Dean twists away as Gabriel starts shimmying out of his pants.

“I don’t mind at all!” he cheerfully replies, tossing his shirt onto the nearest bed. Dean hears the sound of the belt buckle hitting the floor and feels gentle, but insisting probing against his mind as Gabriel requests a Link with him.

Gabriel’s shift is slightly smaller than the average shifter. His pelt is a curious, reddish brown color, black marking around his eyes and down his spine. His features are round, almost soft-looking, and something you’d expect in a beta female. Looking at him, Dean realizes that Gabriel probably had to prove his mettle in countless brawls and fights. Maybe one fight too many is the reason he’s chosen the nomadic lifestyle.

(I am going to call Cas first,) Dean says, opening his mind to Gabriel’s Link.

(Sure,) Gabriel answers and pads towards the door. He paws at the door frame, adding fresh scratches to the countless others. (Could you put those thumbs to good use?)

This time, Dean does roll his eyes, but he turns the knob and watches Gabriel flit across the darkening parking lot. He’s small and fast, quickly putting distance between himself and the motel, his Link snapping away from Dean’s.

Dean nudges Gabriel’s discarded clothes towards the bed Gabriel’s chosen, kicking his shoes out of his path. He hangs his own coat onto one of the small, old, chairs under the window. He collapses onto the bed furthers from the door and lets the exhaustion seep from his body and into the mattress. He gives himself a minute to let the weariness fade before he snags the phone off the receiver and phones home.

He listens to the crackle and hiss of the phone, until a soft click follows by Cas’s voice, full and thick with sleep.

“Dean?”

“Shit,” Dean grimaces and glances at his watch, “I’m sorry, did I wake you?”

“Yeah, it doesn’t matter,” Cas says. Dean hears the sound of sheets rustling, the creak of the mattress. He can easily image Cas sitting up in their bed, his hair tufty and ridiculous and his expression rumpled with sleep. “I wanted to hear your voice. Did you have a good trip? Where are you?”

“Trip went well,” Dean says, “I got to know your brother some. He’s got a dry sense of humor, a terrible affinity for puns and the worst taste in music.” Dean skips over the thing he learned about Cas´s past. There is enough on their plates as it is.

Cas’s tired chuckle sends tingles of joy down Dean’s spine.

“He’s a restless passenger,” Dean adds, “man, not even Sammy needed as many stops and breaks. The floor is covered with candy wrappers and soda bottles.”

“Are you near Michael’s Territory?”

“Yeah, about an hour or so out,” Dean says. “We’ll be visiting him tomorrow morning, bright and early.”

Dean closes his eyes and listens to the sound of Cas’s quickened breathing. The enormity of the visit hangs between them for the span of several heartbeats, before Dean clears his throat.

“How was your day? How’s Tom?”

“Tom is good,” Cas says quietly, “Samandriel’s been with us all day. Tom wasn’t at all phased by his shift. He liked touching his fur. He’s sleeping on the sofa, Samandriel I mean,” he adds with a little laugh.

“Yeah,” Dean swallows down a sudden, hard sensation that’s blocking his throat. He’s been away from his mate and pup for less than twelve hours and he’s already missing them something fierce.

“I was thinking,” Dean says, steering his thoughts away from the desperation in his chest. “Maybe we should add an expansion to the house.”

He hasn’t really been thinking about it, it just occurred to him. With the old guest room converted into a nursery, there’s no place for visitors to spend the night. And when the pups get older, they’ll need a larger room with room for proper beds, desks, chairs and their toys.

“An expansion?”

“Yeah. I mean, it’d be a hassle and we’d have to move out for maybe a year, but way back when the original owner drew up plans for a second story. There’d be enough space for extra bedrooms, a decent size bathroom, you know, with a bathtub and all. Maybe a balcony. We should add a porch or a patio to the backyard as well, get one of those fancy grills and an outdoor shower.”

The more he talks about it, the more easily Dean can imagine all the things he’d like to give his family. A proper living space, with light and cozy bedrooms, maybe even a reading nook, enough room for their pups to play and bring their friends over, a place for them all to grow as a family.

Cas doesn’t respond and for a moment Dean wonders if he’s fallen asleep. Then, he hears a soft, aborted sigh and the sound of the receiver shifting.

“That sounds nice, Dean.”

“Yeah?” Dean presses down all the feelings that're threatening to burst from his chest. For the first time in years, he’s seeing their future expanding before them. Their home growing with their pups, watching them take their first steps, babble their way to coherency, learning to control their shift. The pups chasing a soccer ball in their backyard, wrestling with their pack mates, chasing each other around Sam and Jesse’s farm. Riding their bikes and snuggling down against Cas, curled up in the basket, noses pressed together.

“Yes,” Cas says carefully as if he doesn’t dare to hope for all these things that Dean is promising the Moon he’ll give them.

“Great,” Dean wipes a hand across his face, “listen, I need to take a walk before bed. Do you want me to call you tomorrow before I visit Michael?”

“Please do,” Cas answers, “and call again as soon as-“

“Cas, I’m bringing out pup home, don’t worry, alright?”

“Alright, Dean,” Cas says, “I have faith in you.”

Dean closes his eyes for a moment, “I’ll call again, soon. Is Samandriel going to be with you tomorrow?”

“Charlie is coming over after breakfast with one of her portable machines, she’s helping Samandriel look for his pack.”

“Okay. That’s good.” There’s a twinge of guilt stabbing his chest as Dean realizes that Samandriel was also stolen from his family. He’s suffered at the hands of Collectors and Hunters, and Dean hasn’t really done much, or anything, to help him find his way home. He’s glad that Charlie is more considerate than him, that somebody is looking out for Samandriel.

“I’ll talk to you tomorrow, good night.”

“Goodnight, Dean.”

Dean keeps the phone to his ear until he hears the soft click of the call ending. He places the receiver back into its slot and wipes a hand across his face before pushing himself off the bed. He carefully sheds his clothes and places them neatly on the bed before he lets himself slip into the fur. His wolf comes alive with a burst of colors and sounds and scents and energy.

He sees Gabriel’s scent, tawny brown covering his clothes and trailing in a thick stream slipping out the gap in the door. He follows the stream, nudging the door shut behind him and walking into the brisk, spring evening.

By this time tomorrow, he’ll be reunited with Tom’s brother.

He doesn’t care if Michael follows the Old Ways, he won’t let them stand in the way of reuniting his family.

 


	28. Chapter 28

**Chapter twenty-eight.**

 

Dean spends the night twisting and turning, his stomach in knots. His mind is unhelpfully providing him with every dreadful scenario his imagination can muster and he finds himself spending hours thinking up all the ways things can go wrong and how to deal with them when they do.

 

Gabriel, however, sleeps like the dead. The wolf is sprawled out on his side on top of the duvet, paws and ears twitching slightly as he dreams. Dean wonders how he’s able to sleep in such a vulnerable position, cooped up with an Alpha he bearly knows. Either Gabriel is confident he can take Dean, or he doesn´t care what might happen.

 

A little before six in the morning, Dean decides that sleep is a lost cause. He pads across the floor, stretching his throbbing muscles and wills his brain to just shut up. He opens the front door and slips into his wolf’s skin, even if his bones aches in protest of the sudden alteration.

 

Outside it is warm and dank, the air thick with rain and the smell of thunder. It makes his fur bristle and his muzzle itch. He fights the instinct to find somewhere cool and dark to hide until the storm is over and makes himself walk into the wet grass. He detects the faint smell of distant cars and a herd of cattle, but otherwise, the rain has washed everything clear, leaving behind the brown smell of wet soil and grass. When the clouds finally roll away, leaving the thunder and rain behind they reveal a bright and lovely morning.

 

An hour later they are gathered in the parking lot and loading their bags into the cars. Despite his restful sleep, Gabriel is fighting to keep his eyes open and stares morosely into the cup of black dredge that the vending machine promise is real coffee.

 

“What can we expect when we get to the border?” John asks. Dean’s been wondering the same, most packs will have some sort of patrol going on, picking up the errant scents of travelers and strangers. In the Winchester’s territory, Shifters are made welcome and taken to see the Alpha to present their business. It’s usually an informal affair, scent marking, an exchange of news and family ties and an offer of a place to stay. Humans are usually ignored, though, with their new knowledge of how Hunters and Collectors operate, he knows they will need to be much more vigilant with the strangers in their territory.

 

“Well,” Gabriel says, taking a sip of coffee and immediately regretting it, “we should make sure to enter the territory here,” he points at a tiny name on the map. “It’s not really a town, just a few houses, but it’s essentially our border patrol. Don’t go too far south, or you’ll end up in Lucifer’s territory and he’s got a very conservative way of greeting newcomers. ”

 

“You will give our introductions,” John says, not even bother to try and form it into something resembling a question.

 

“I will,” Gabriel agrees, “we should head straight for the core, where Michael lives. Depending on who’s on the post, he might know we’re coming. Lucifer will probably know that we’re there, he’ll be curious, but he knows to stick to his own turf.”

 

John emits a half snort, half growl, his only comment on Milton’s security arrangement.

 

“You don’t think Lucifer will interfere? Cas used to be part of his pack, and Lucifer didn’t let him go willingly.” Dean is almost hoping the Alpha will show himself. He’s yearning to let him know exactly what he thinks about his treatment of Cas.

 

“Oh, he’s probably got some spies or informant, but he isn’t going to risk his neck. Michael has defeated him twice, he won’t risk our brother’s patience once more. It will make him lose his standing in his pack.”

 

“Right,” Dean says, not feeling fully convinced. Gabriel doesn’t seem to make to take his brother’s rebellion very seriously, but Dean has a niggling feeling that Lucifer isn’t as meek as Gabriel thinks.

 

“Just let me handle the talking,” Gabriel says. He empties the rest of the sludge onto the ground, “and we’ll be fine.”

 

“Sure,” John says. He stuffs his hands into the pockets and levels his steely eyes on Gabriel. Dean is an expert in reading every minute expression in his father’s gaze and immediately falls to attention. Gabriel, however, starts digging about in his pocket, pulling out lint, bits of bent wires and an old caramel that he pops into his mouth.

 

“So, anyway,” Gabriel says, glancing between the two Winchesters. His wolf seems to be able to pick up on the body language, his shoulders slump and he deflates like a balloon.

 

“I’ll just be over here,” he points with his thumb over his shoulder at a patch of grass down by the road. “Looking at stuff.”

 

Dean watches him leave before he turns back to his father.

 

“Dean,” John says in the tone of voice he uses when he’s presenting Dean with an idea he knows his son won’t like. “When we meet with Michael, I need you to keep a level head.”

 

Dean bristles, “he stole-“a firm hand on his shoulder interrupts his tirade.

 

“We don’t know the truth of the story, Dean. Maybe Michael bought him in good faith, thinking he was saving a pup from a cruel fate.”

 

“Or maybe, like Victor, he was in on everything from the start!”

 

John shakes his head and Dean feels the imprint of his fingers digging into his skin, “I don’t think so, Dean. Look, we got lucky with Alpha Shurley. He was….modern,” John struggles with the word, his mouth slanting into a grimace before he trudges on, “…modern enough to be willing to bend all the rules, old and new. We can’t expect the same leniency from Michael Milton.”

 

Dean presses his lips shut. He knows his father is right. In any other territory, John and Dean would have been held accountable for Victor’s death, for breaking up a family, for taking away and pup from a pack. Despite the ludicrously old rules, Meg and Victor had a right to try their case at the Gathering, even if that meant Dean and Cas would have to wait two years to get their son back if they managed to prove the blood bond.

 

“Don’t forget that Michael is Castiel’s brother,” John continues, “I don’t know why Castiel was exiled, but that’s still his family.”

 

Dean’s on the verge of telling his father everything Gabriel told him in the car about Cas, Anna, Lucifer, and Michael, but he doesn’t want any further delays. His pup is just hours away from him, he wants to reunite his family.

 

“What are you saying?” Dean asks.

 

“I’m saying, don’t go in all hot-headed, like you usually do. Let’s avoid any further bloodshed.”

 

“Right,” Dean says, even if it’s a promise he is all too willing to break.

 

 

An hour before noon they pull into the tiny border town that Gabriel had described as just a few houses. It’s actually five houses, painted white with red tiles on the roofs and an immaculately manicured lawn stretching down to the road. There’s a tiny kiosk-and-gas station in the town center and a small park with a circle trees and a wooden picnic table. Everything is clean and tidy. There’s not as much as a leaf of weed to be seen in the park. Gabriel guides them to a shady parking spot under the trees and Dean kills the engine just as John pulls up next to them in Gabriel’s car.

 

“Home sweet home,” Gabriel says, stuffing another caramel between his teeth.

 

“Hello, folks.”

 

They are greeted by an elderly man with an impressive set of whiskers, oiled and curled to perfection. He’s dressed in, of all things, a three-piece suit, with shoes, so shiny Dean can see his own reflection in them. The only thing missing from his ensemble is a monocle.

 

“Hello Hadraniel,” Gabriel says, sticking out his sticky hand in greeting. Unfazed, Hadraniel wraps Gabriel’s hand in a firm handshake that has the younger man wincing in pain.

 

“Back home, eh?”

 

“Yeah. Stopping by to visit the family, you know.”

 

“Hmm.” Hadraniel nods absentmindedly, his blue eyes turning to regard John and Dean. His mustache twitches, as though it’s filtering through all the smells to pick up the distinctive fragrance of two, unfamiliar alphas.

 

“This is John and Dean Winchester,” Gabriel says, taking a step back and urging them forward. John steps forward first, offering his hand to Hadraniel. They shake hands, eyes locked for a long time.

 

“Winchesters,” Hadraniel chews on the name, “you guys are a long way from home.”

 

“We are here to-“ Dean starts before Gabriel hurriedly steps in.

 

“They are here to visit Michael. Dean is Castiel’s mate, you remember Cassie, don’t you?”

 

Hadraniel’s eyes light up a million watt, “hard to forget the youngest Milton. Always had his nose stuck in a book. How’s he doing?”

 

He looks at Dean, eyes suddenly calculating, his gaze flitting to the cars as if he’s half wondering if Dean has his mate hidden in the trunk. “He’s….” Dean searches for the least complicated words. “He’s fine. He’s sorry he couldn’t make it.”

 

“Mhm,” Hadraniel says “probably best he doesn’t come back here, to be honest, Lucifer won’t be too happy if Michael welcomes him back after he ran away.”

 

Dean balls his hands into fists and steers himself into safer territory. “We wish to speak with Michael.”

 

“Must be an important conversation if you travel all the way up here, can’t it wait until the next Gathering?”

 

“No, I’m afraid it can’t.”

 

Hadraniel spreads his hands helplessly. Dean prepares himself for one of the usual speeches on how they do things in the Milton Territory and that Dean can’t come here and make demands of the alpha. But, Hadraniel only sighs and turns to address Gabriel, his eyes not meeting his.

 

“You’ve been out of touch for a while, you’ll find things have changed.”

 

Gabriel frowns, his eyes darting from John and Dean and back to the elderly alpha, as if he’s trying to figure out if this is a conversation they should have in private or not. Hadraniel scrubs a hand over himself, his eyes closing for a moment. When they open, the old man has aged another ten years.

 

“Eve wandered, about three months ago. She went stroll in her fur, never came back. Michael found her collar later, hanging from a tree.”

 

Gabriel mutters a curse, his hands curling at his side. Dean watches the alpha struggle to reel in his emotions, but even as he turns to them there’s a hint of unease in the whiteness around his eyes.

 

“Eve was Michael’s mate, an alpha matriarch-,” Gabriel says, his voice low and hoarse. Because names and ranks are the two important things to a wolf. “What about the pups?” He spins back to Hadraniel who twists his lips into something resembling a smile.

 

“They are as well as could be expected. We’re a pack, after all. We take care of each other.”

 

“Right,” Gabriel shakes his head and summons the last strength of his composure. “We should head on over. Is he at the manor?”

 

Hadraniel nods and sticks his hands into his pockets. His eyes remain locked on them until he disappears from the rearview mirror.

 

Gabriel is silent for a while, his eyes closed and the back of his head resting against the window. Dean gives him these few moments to grieve, to come to terms with what’s happened. There are many questions at the tip of Dean’s tongue. How sure are they that Eve Wandered? The Winchester Pack had assumed the safe of Castiel, could Eve be another victim of the Collectors?

 

Eventually, Gabriel opens his eyes again and wipes the back of his hand across his eyes. “It’s just down here, the next exit to the left.”

 

Dean turns onto a smoothly traveled path, rows of well-manicured trees lining both sides and filtering the sunlight into glittering constellation on the ground. On both sides, green meadows stretch on until they meet the edge of the forest. Slowly, a massive, white house rises up on a small slope. Dean loses his count when he tries to count the windows. The house is tree stories high, though Dean wouldn’t be surprised if there’s a basement hidden below the ground. It even has pillars along the front, as if the architect figured he’d try and mirror the White House.

 

“You never said Michael was rich?” Dean’s grip on the steering wheel tightens.

 

“Oh,” Gabriel shrugs, “I thought you knew. Milton. As in the oil/copper/energy firm Milton’s? The found oil on one of our great- something grandfather's property and every alpha in the family has just been managing the funds since. How did you think I could afford just driving around?”

 

It makes a sickening sort of sense, Dean thinks, how else could Michael have afforded to buy the pup from Crowley? It must have cost him half his fortune.

 

They pull to a stop in front of the giant front doors. John steps out of Gabriel’s car with a low, tight, whistle, his eyes assessing the building from top to bottom, probably trying to figure out how much it would cost to insure.

 

“Do we ring the bell or wait for the butler?” Dean asks, slamming the car door with more force than necessary.

 

Gabriel rolls his eyes, his mood temporary restored by Dean’s sudden unease. He strides up the elegantly paved path to the front door, presses his thumb against the doorbell and rests his full weight against it. The bell shrills.

 

Half a minute later the door is opened and a girl, not more than seven or eight opens the door. Her hair is gathered in two uneven plaits, and she’s wearing a bright green dress and a wide smile. She slams into Gabriel’s legs, wrapping both arms around him and hugging him tight.

 

“Oh, boy,” Gabriel mutters, petting the girl’s head somewhat awkwardly, “which one are you then, Ariel or Ambriel?”

 

“Ariel, silly” the girl giggles. Gabriel pulls her gently out until he can hold her by the shoulders at an arms-length. He makes a big show of studying her, twisting her this way and that and sniffing her hair, eliciting bright giggles from the girl.

 

“You’ve sure grown,” he says with satisfaction, “uh-huh. I’ve mastered my shift too, want to see?!” She yanks at her dress, but Gabriel quickly and gently grabs her hands.

 

“Let’s….save that for later, we’ve got guests, don’t you see? Where’s your dad and your sister?”

 

Ariel blushes to the tip of her ears, hiding her face in Gabriel’s waist again. He response is muffling against Gabriel’s stomach and it takes Gabriel several tries before he can coax it out of here.

 

“Daddy’s with the baby,” she says in a tone of voice that suggests that he’s been doing far too much of that lately. “The baby is so boring, he just cries aaaaaall the time.”

 

The words make Dean’s heart skip a beat. His pup is right here. Somewhere in this house. He’s about to step forward and make his way right past Gabriel when he feels John’s hand on his shoulder.

 

“Stay calm, Dean. This is a family you’re about to break up.”

 

Dean swallows the lump back down to his stomach, his gaze flitting down to the little girl in the green dress. She just lost her mother and today she’s about to lose her baby brother too.

 

“Well,” Gabriel says, shuffling a little and rolling his shoulder, the scent of his unease thick and cloying. “Let’s go say hello.”

 

“Okay,” Ariel says, as though this is a great chore she must suffer through. She grabs hold of Gabriel’s hand and yanks him in through the doorway, leaving John and Dean to follow awkwardly in their wake.

 

The interior is just as impressive as the exterior. Checkered tiles lead the way past a built-in wardrobe, where Ariel primly tells them they can hang their coats. A few steps down the hall, the oak paneling walls lined with oil paintings of various figures and nature scenes. In front of them are two solid looking doors and a massive staircase branching in the middle, left and right. John runs a hand appreciably over the woodwork, making a small remark on the quality of the craftsman’s ship while Dean wonders why anybody would ever bother with a chandelier in a goddamned hall.

 

At the top of the stairs stands another girl, the exact mirror of Ariel, but with her hair in a ponytail, wearing a red and blue dress, and a green and yellow sock. It takes Dean’s overworked mind a moment to realize that the girls are twins.

 

“Uncle Gabriel,” she shrieks when she spots him, and then proceeds to slide down the banister, must to her sisters charging. “We’re not allowed to slide on the staircase, Ambriel, daddy said so!”

 

Ambriel crashes into her uncle’s arm with a wicked grin, just the sliver of canine eyes visible under her fringe.

 

“Hello sport,” Gabriel says. He digs into her pocket and fishes out a piece of candy from his endless supply of sweets. He offers one to Ariel too, who wrinkles her tiny nose for a moment, before snatching it out of Gabriel’s hands. “Thanks,” Ambriel says, her mouth full of toffee.

 

Dean takes a deep, shuddering, breath, half to still the wild gallop of his heart trying to break free of his ribcage, half to try and gather the scent of his pup. He picks up on Michael’s first, the thick, dominating scent of an alpha that’s settled on every piece of furniture in the house. It smells of some alkane Dean can’t place, and of dark soil and the wet brush of leaves. His eyes lock with a set of deep, dark, blue orbs.

 

Michael Milton looks more than his younger brother than Gabriel does. Thick, black hair, a strong jaw, and a sharp nose. Even from the top of the stairs, Dean can tell he’s about the same height as Sam. His eyes remain fixed on Dean as he descends the stairs, moving with the slow, sleek, grace of a confident predator in its own territory. Despite his youthful appearance, there’s old power in this shifter, old blood, and more strength than Dean dares to uncover. He fights the wolf’s urge to submit, reels in the animal before he bares his neck to the creature in front of him.

 

He’s dressed in beige slacks with a blue pinstriped shirt that’s buttoned all the way up to the collar. His mere presence is enough to make Dean feel grubby in his jeans, t-shirt, and plaid shirt. He’s acutely aware of the grease stains on edge of his frayed jeans. If Michael ever decides to try the paternity right at the Gathering, Dean won’t stand a chance.

 

Even Gabriel seems to gather his composure, falling to something akin to attention. The only one who doesn’t seem bothered by his appearance is Ambriel, who is licking the stickiness from the sweet off her fingertips.

 

“Gabriel, it’s been a long time, how nice to see you,” Michael says, his voice calm and controlled to the last consonant. He turns to Dean and John before Gabriel has the chance to formulate his reply “…who are your friends?” Michael takes a step towards John, his nostrils flaring, his eyes narrowing to slits. There’s low rumble in the back of his throat, his lips curling back to reveal canine teeth. John digs his hands into the pocket of his jackets, probably to hide them curling into fists, even if there is no mistaking the pheromones cloying the air. Dean can suddenly appreciate all the politics and traditions set in place to govern the meeting between two alphas. It´s probably the only thing keeping things civil.

 

“This is John and Dean Winchester,” Gabriel say, smoothly injecting himself between John and Michael. “From the Winchester territory, Dean is Cassie’s mate.”

 

Michael’s posture falters, his eyes jumping between the two Winchesters before they settle uneasily on Dean’s. He tilts his head, scenting the air, the movement unmistakably like Cas. Dean forces himself to remain still while Michael sorts through the scents clinging to his body. Michael steps out of Dean’s personal space, and Dean knows that for now, they have his tacit approval.

 

“Dean Winchester. How nice to meet you. How is my brother?”

 

Dean’s carefully stilted smile wilts, “we’d better sit down and talk.”

 

 

Despite their epic sulk, Ariel and Ambriel are dismissed to their rooms to play while the grownup talk. Michael leads them through an assortment of rooms, one more impressive than the other, until he gestures to a pair of chesterfield sofa, dominating a dark, green room. Antlers of elk and moose line the walls above them, and there’s a heavy, smoky feeling to the room.

 

“Can I offer you something to drink?” Michael says.

 

“We’re fine,” Dean says above Gabriel’s half-hearted protest. Michael nods slowly, before lowering himself into the sofa, folding one elegant leg over the other. He places a small, white device with an antenna on the table in front of him. Gabriel tips off his shoes and collapses into the sofa next his brother, leaving the Winchester to take the seat opposite them.

 

“Well, then,” Michael says, his eyes catching Dean’s again. He gestures with his palm to the table, bidding Dean to start.

 

Dean rubs the back the head of his head for a moment, giving himself a few seconds to sort through the story and pick the best place to start and stop. He’s not sure what details to share yet, he’s not sure of Michael. If he tells him of Cas’s struggles and problems, is he giving him ammunition to use against them at the Gathering, should he force them to take the case there? Will he be able to direct Michael’s ire at the Collectors and Hunters? He swore he wouldn’t let Michael stand in the way of reuniting his family, but now, sitting before him, he knows there’s no way he’ll make it out of here in one piece if Michael decided to defend his territory.

 

So, he starts by telling him about how they meet at the Gathering. He talks about Anna and Cas making a home in their Pack. Michael is fighting a smile, but it is quickly replaced with a frown when Dean starts on the Collectors and Hunters. He explains in detail about Charlie’s computer and her system to find the probable location of Castiel. Now and again John offers a gruff comment or points out a detail that Dean missed.

 

Dean tells him about all the missing shifters and how Cas became a target for an interested Collector because he was pregnant. He tells him about Victor and how they got Milton’s name from him.

 

He tells him about Tom and his brother.

 

He tries to keep his voice steady, and he sees the moment clarity blooms in Michael’s eyes, his gaze landing on the white device on the table, his hands curling into the fabric of his pants, his eyes tight and possessive.

 

As soon as the words are out of his mouth he wants them back. This was a mistake. Michael is going to fight him every step of the way. What the hells is he going to tell Cas? There’s a thundering rush of blood in his ears.

 

The silence is broken by a sudden, sharp shrill from the white device on the table. It rattles them all and Dean wants to ask, but the words lodge in his throat.

 

“Excuse me,” Michael says, curtly. He rises, grabs the device from the table and strides out of the room. Dean listens to the fall of the cries as Michael disappears somewhere into the bowels of the massive house.

 

“Well,” Gabriel says and rubs his nose, “that went well.”

 

Dean wants to strangle him and his dad is probably reading his thoughts because he nudges Dean’s knee with his own.

 

“Didn’t you see the look on his face?” Dean hisses through clenched teeth.

 

“I didn’t need to,” John says, “I could smell it. But, there’s something else here, Dean-“ John fills his lungs, “he’s just lost his mate, so, let’s give him the benefit of the doubt.”

 

“Benefit of-“ Dean leashes his wolf before it can explode, “what the hells are you talking about, dad? He’s going to fight us every goddamned step of the way, he’s-“

 

Dean’s tirade falters to the sound of approaching steps and the unmistakable scent formula and diapers. It’s hard to pick it out from under Michael’s overwhelming presence, but it’s mistakingly there, something that tells every cell in his body that they belong together. It takes John’s vice-like grip to keep Dean rooted to the sofa and it takes every nuance of Dean’s strength to not shift and head straight for Michael’s jugular, consequences be damned.

 

Michael appears in the doorway, the pup tucked against his chest. He’s wrapped in a brown blanket, so the only thing Dean can see is the top of his head. Dark, tufts of soft baby hair. For a long while, Michael just stands there, his eyes not meeting Dean’s, but lost somewhere on the other side of the room that only Michael can see. There’s a sudden brittleness to the striking alpha, the muscles in his jaw bunching and relaxing. Then, Michael bends his head and buries his nose in the top of the pup’s head. He closes his eyes as if he’s savoring this moment, dreading the change that will shatter the ephemeral peace between father and child.

 

With visible difficulty, Michael crosses the distance towards Dean, Dean rising to meet him halfway, wrapping his hands around the pup as Michael deposits him into his arm.

 

“His name is Matthew Inias,” Michael says, his voice cooled to the point of frost, “but I suppose you can change it if you want to.”

 

Dean feels the weight of the pup settling in his arms and stares down at the face that’s become so precious to him.

 

“Excuse me,” Michael says, he stands up, ramrod straight, his mouth shutting with a snap that could have cut his tongue in two.

 

Dean lets himself sit back into the sofa, only half aware of Gabriel getting up and following his brother, leaving the Dean alone with his pup, his family finally complete. He should feel happy, ecstatic ever, but Michael´s departure has left something unpleasant twisting in his chest.

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Please note that this is a work of fiction that has incorporate lore from multiple sources including, but not limited to: Terry Pratchett (Discworld) Gene Roddenberry (Star Trek), Brian McGreevy (Hemlock Grove) and mythology from around the world- all sauced together to create my own mythos. This will all be made clear throughout the story.


End file.
